


Not-A-Date

by maraudeuse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Triumvirate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-01 21:51:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraudeuse/pseuds/maraudeuse
Summary: Grantaire wants to date Enjolras. Enjolras isn't sure if he wants to date at all. They decide to go on Not-A-Dates, which is a fundamentally different concept from dates. It is.It is.





	Not-A-Date

**Author's Note:**

> It took me almost two years to complete this, so I have several people to thank:  
>  **[Zhenia](http://shadowy-andata.tumblr.com)** steadfastly beta-ing this even as it grew 10 times as long as I planned it to be and I still haven't given her all the cake she deserves for this. Thank you for being my actual Ferre friend and for enduring some of the text messages Courf sends Enjolras in this story in real life (still sorry for the tralala one) _as you should be_ (this comment was added by Zhenia during the aforementioned editing process). Thank you **[Kat](http://courfeynated.tumblr.com)** for responding with a list of headcanons whenever I ask you stuff like “What do you think Bahorel's flat looks like?” in the middle of the night and for always having a pun in store.  
>  **[Flavía](http://flaviamarquesart.tumblr.com)** for translating Courf's Portuguese and for introducing me to the glory of Portuguese sweets.  
>  **Efi** for complaining about the fraudulent vendition of fish.  
>  **[icarus-drunk](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com)** for letting me borrow R's shirt.
> 
> I'm not from France and my French is a bit rusty, so if I understood something wrong about the University system or made any mistakes considering locations, transport, etc. despite my research, please let me know, I'm always glad to learn. (I'm also aware that the puns wouldn't work like that in French, but shush, let's just pretend they were translated elaborately from the original dialogues.)

It's late, and faint noises are floating in through the small tilted window behind the TV, small signs that the city has not gone to bed yet, but isn't quite awake anymore either: Cars stopping and pulling away regularly at the traffic lights, laughter and music from the 24 hour café over the street; someone's shouting, and the five past train rustles in the distance, and Enjolras probably would have already fallen asleep if it weren't for the unmistakable stinging in his eyes. He's a grown man. He's _not_ crying about a cartoon movie.

“ _Tod – if it's the last thing I'll do, I'll – I'll get you for this!”_

Combeferre silently sniffs into the sleeve of his pyjama jacket, then hits pause. “Okay, stop”, he says. “This is sad. Why didn't you tell me this was going to be sad?”

“I didn't know it was”, Enjolras protests. Some of his insistence is lost, though, when he yawns mid-sentence. “I hadn't watched it before.”

“We should have asked Courfeyrac.”

“He wouldn't have warned us.”

“Fair point.”

They both remove their glasses to clean them with the hem of their shirts and to dab their eyes. Enjolras grins when he notices they're in accord once again. He thinks he sees Combeferre flash a smile too when he glances over to where Enjolras is curled up, legs entangled under him.

“You know”, he says in typical calm Combeferre manner, “that I didn't want to move out at first to spare us the disaster of a new flat-mate being assigned to you by uni. So I'm really happy that Courf offered to reclaim his old place and everything worked out. But I still want you to know that all the complaining about how Marius and Cosette need their privacy and how Courf barely holds up was a little over the top.”

Combeferre chuckles, and Enjolras says, “It was Courf's idea.”

“I figured.”

His voice has a peculiar tone to it, so Enjolras tries to make out his face in the blue light that the TV is providing. As Combeferre has turned his head to look at him, half of it is cast in shadows and Enjolras can't see his expression, but his voice sounds like he's smiling.

“But you have to admit”, he says, “Courfeyrac _is_ living in Marius's and Cosette's broom closet.”

Combeferre probably gives a sample of his famous eye-roll that Enjolras can't see because he's closed his eyes now and there is no way he's opening them again. “His room's bigger than Jehan's apartment, he's just acting.”

“Well. Good for him, because he gets paid for that”, Enjolras mumbles, which earns him a pillow thrown at his head. “I didn't want you to feel bad about it anymore”, he adds after a moment of hesitation. “It's a big deal for you. Moving in with Éponine, I mean. You should look forward to that.”

He's hit by another pillow on the spot. “We could've talked about it, you dork”, Combeferre sighs, immediately trying to reclaim the pillow, but Enjolras has already tugged it under his head and snuggled down even deeper into the blanket he's snatched from Combeferre earlier this evening. Or morning, probably. The little square of sky bounded by the window frame and the roof top looks suspiciously bright.

“Are you still nervous?”

“I'm at the verge of dying”, Combeferre says. He sounds a bit strained, and Enjolras knows he has been losing sleep during the last nights. “ _Dead seriously?_ ”, he whispers nonetheless and smiles as he curls around the third pillow thrown at him a second later, using it as a sort of paisley-patterned surrogate teddy bear. After a moment of contemplation he reaches out for Combeferre's hand, pressing it reassuringly. “Gavroche's had two years to get accustomed to you. I'm sure he'll get used to seeing you in pyjamas, too”, he slurs. “Also, he's sixteen. And Éponine probably wouldn't have asked you if he. You know. Hated you. I guess. You'll work it out.”

He squints, only to see Combeferre shake his head lightly, smiling as well. “Don't worry, I'll pretend this was one of your better motivational speeches”, he says. “How about we finish this movie some other time?”

“Consider yourself invited to your former home.”

Combeferre switches off the TV, then collapses back on the sofa. “Give me one of those pillows, please.”

Enjolras hums contently.

“ _You wish.”_

 

Courfeyrac turns up on their doorstep at exactly 9 a.m. the next morning, Marius and Cosette in his trail as designated moving guys. When Enjolras opens the door, still not fully recovered from their heartbreaking _The Fox and the Hound_ experience and in definite lack of sugar, he gets beamed at like there's no better weekend activity than two house movings. “What a wonderful morning, my friends!”, Courfeyrac proclaims, “I have come to sleep with you!”

It's their standard greeting whenever someone stays over, and etiquette dictates that everyone besides Marius groans while the catchword's spiritual father himself takes on the colour of Enjolras's favourite red hoodie. Today the effect is barely observable since Marius has managed to get utterly sun-burnt despite the cool weather. However, he's looking so uncomfortable that it is clear that, as amazing as it is, he's still embarrassed about this episode after – how long? Six years, seven years? Then again, the famous hoodie might be just as old.

Enjolras suddenly feels a hint of self-consciousness. It's weird, he thinks, to see his two oldest friends switch places, both in a new phase of their life while he's simply holding out, still a law student like the last time he lived with Courfeyrac nearly five years ago. Then Courfeyrac pats Marius's shoulder affectionately, grabs the nearest box and asks, “Mind if we come in?”, and the spell is broken. With everyone piling up boxes in the narrow corridor of their apartment, Enjolras somehow finds himself carrying an object that looks disturbingly like a scratching post.

“Courfeyrac?” He doesn't have to try very hard for this simple word to convey everything he wants to say, which ranges broadly from _The hell is this?_ to _I have a strong suspicion about what this is and I do_ _no_ _t like it at all._

Despite being a good actor on screen, Courfeyrac's expression is a little bit too innocent to fool anyone when he puts down a box labeled _COURF STYLE_ to demonstratively look back and forth between Enjolras and the scratching post, clutching his chest dramatically. “Why, I thought I'd bring you some toys! Are you saying you don't like them?”

Combeferre snickers, but Enjolras only raises one eyebrow. (At least he hopes he does. The last time he practiced this in front of the bathroom mirror, it was pretty impressive.)

“Enjolras, my oldest friend, surely you're not down on Marius moving in with us?”

“The cat”, Cosette supplies at the sight of Enjolras's face dropping in slow motion.

“You named your cat Marius?”, Combeferre asks in a tone that is clearly judging. Marius is blushing again.

“Yes, and Marius is allergic against Marius”, Cosette explains. “Now come on guys, let's get moving.”

The fact that no one makes the obvious pun speaks volumes. Combeferre, half a head taller than Enjolras, slaps him on his back so hard that his knees buckle. “Please help me get away from here before this turns into mayhem”, he says, and Enjolras is sure he's only about fifty percent joking.

 

> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _may i ask why_ _you_ _just stormed out of our apartment like_ _you're_ _about to_ _try_ _defy_ _ing_ _gravity_
> 
> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _also, why was_ _your_ _shirt open???_
> 
> **[to Courfeyrac:]** _Grocery shopping. We only have some dry bread left._
> 
> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _it's eleven in the evening enjolras_
> 
> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _also whY WAS_ _YOU_ _R SHIRT OPEN?????_

 

* * *

 

 Living with Courfeyrac makes Enjolras feel like he's fifteen again and spending most nights over at his grandparents' house. The only thing disrupting the picture is the fact that Courfeyrac is officially a responsible adult now who's earning his own money. Compared to sharing the flat with Combeferre, with both of them always caught up in their studies, it still feels like an eternal slumber party.

He had also lost track on how much exactly Courfeyrac is into musical theater. It's probably one of those things that slip off your radar when you don't spend your every day life together anymore, he thinks. Since Courfeyrac drifted into this obsession a few years ago, he has apparently run out of French musicals and blasts out Broadway tunes most of the time, which is also why his English has become nearly as good as Marius's (quite a huge compliment considering the fact that Marius studies three languages at once). Enjolras vaguely remembers Cosette joking about how they didn't need a calendar because Courfeyrac found a new musical to be enthusiastic about every month. At the moment, it's _Wicked_. It only takes Enjolras two hours to learn that there's a character named “Fiyeroooo” in there (with approximately as many o's as there are l's in “Jolllly”) and that Courfeyrac considers “Dancing through Life” his personal theme song (even though he claims that he's “not a Fiyero type of guy”).

They don't hear much from Combeferre during the first weekend. Courfeyrac pretends to be worried that Gavroche might have poisoned his cereal, but they both agree that no news is good news in this case.

“Maybe Gavroche's at Azelma's and they're having a romantic week-end à deux”, Courfeyrac suggests when there's still no news on Sunday evening and they're sprawled on the sofa in front of the TV once again, eating leftover cold pizza like responsible 24-year-olds, Marius (the cat) occupying a good third of the seat. Enjolras would never admit it, but one of the reasons he already misses Combeferre is because his access to his mum's food is now severely restricted.

Enjolras tries to picture Combeferre…doing whatever people do during romantic week-ends. Cooking a three-course dinner. Scattering roses throughout the apartment. Slow-dancing in the living-room under a bunch of mistletoes. Or are mistletoes a holiday-exclusive thing?

“I can't really see that happen”, he mumbles, before he continues nibbling the cheese off his slice of pizza.

“I can.” Courfeyrac grins meaningfully as he pets Marius the cat's head, who shoots a death glare over to Enjolras as he dares to move for about ten centimeters in order to fetch another cushion. (Enjolras has to add 'the cat' every time he talks or thinks about him because it's making him weirdly uncomfortable otherwise.) “Because I saw other things happen. Things that gave me cavities. Things I wish I could erase from my mind –”

Enjolras glares at him. “Then please don't carve them into mine, thank you very much.”

“I'm just saying”, Courfeyrac says, affectionately patting Enjolras's head, “Ferre isn't just an evil genius, he's also a huge sap.” He switches the program to a flashy horror film and Enjolras drifts off to what sounds like Courfeyrac mumbling an accompanying commentary in Portuguese, not making it to his bed for the forth night in a row. He's convinced that he catches the words _“devias ter usado essas coisas com o Fantasma, Raoul”_ at some point, but then again, he might already be sleeping.

 

He only meets Combeferre at the ABC meeting on Monday, but they don't get to chat much, mostly because it's one of those frustrating days where they do nothing but discuss what they need to discuss. There's a rally in vague prospect three months from now, but they're at this exhausting stage where all that can be done is delegating tasks and setting deadlines. Seventy minutes into the meeting, the spreadsheets, lists, schedules and brochures occupying the complete tabletop start to blur before Enjolras's eyes and he finds it increasingly hard to keep track of the four different discussions that take place at the respective ends of the room. They are starting to become a daze of white noise, spiked with the clattering of glasses, Bahorel's roaring laughter, Combeferre rattling down a list of figures Enjolras can't place at the moment – the costs for the sound equipment, maybe, or statistics of attendants at their last protests – and Grantaire telling a story about his Latin teacher versus a horse bust to Joly and Éponine. He's talking in moderate tone, but his soft voice is clearly visible over the clatter; it has always been to Enjolras. Back in school, it used to drive him up the walls that he was never able to block Grantaire out, that part of him paid attention to him no matter what, but now focussing on his voice in the background is calming.

Enjolras closes his eyes in an attempt to ward off at least some of the sensations. He knows he'll be frustrated if he comes home from the meeting without a little progress at least, so he breathes slowly and tries to focus again, but the air is thick and full of noise. God, he _hates_ talking bureaucracy and finances as much as he despises analysing lawsuits that would be better described by the word _pissing contest_. It's necessary, of course it is – that much they have all learned in nearly eight years of Les Amis de l'ABC – but it also feels like a giant waste of time when they could instead _get things done_. When he jumps at the noise of a glass being slammed on the table, he excuses himself to the bathroom, where we spills some cold water in his face and tells the mirror to pull himself together and get over with this nonsense.

When he returns to the backroom, it's suspiciously quiet, and at least half of his friends are turning around to shoot him worried looks. As he walks back to his place, Enjolras is suddenly strangely aware of his arms dangling from his shoulders. “Your fly is open”, Bahorel says fondly in an attempt to lighten the mood. Enjolras doesn't even bother to glare at him; “Bahorel – I'm wearing sweatpants”, he says in an exasperated voice as he slides back on his chair. (Courfeyrac whispers something to Combeferre that sounds suspiciously like a scandalized _“Sweatpants!”_. He's probably beating himself up about how Enjolras could have managed to leave the house under-dressed like this without him noticing. Enjolras does his best to ignore him despite being very aware of Grantaire chuckling into his glass.)

“Let's just work through the most urgent tasks”, Combeferre suggests, digging in the mess of paper stacks. Master of the chaos, he apparently knows exactly where said list is located, because he pulls it out with a pleased little smile a few seconds later. Enjolras recognizes his own writing, decorated with four different marker colors, and shifts closer to Combeferre to take a look over his shoulder. “Five euros if you can decode Enjolras's colour code”, Courfeyrac says jovially next to him, “Ferre and Feuilly can play, but not compete.”

Jehan bends over the table to pick the sheet out of Combeferre's hand and looks at it thoughtfully. “Cyan is for the longing that overcomes him in Night's darkest hour”, they declare. “Pink is for the blood spilled when his mortal enemies are slain –”

“A+ writing”, Grantaire says cheerfully, “put some obscure melody over it and this song will become the unofficial hymn of out generation. Maybe mention _work experience required_ and _unpaid practical work_ for good measure –”

Bossuet chokes on his drink and takes some well-placed blows to his back from Musichetta before he can breathe again, as well as a handkerchief from Joly because apparently, he snorted whatever he's drinking through his nose. “Speaking of unpaid practical work”, he says good-naturedly into the silence that has expanded after his trumpeting, “Did I tell you guys that I lost my job again?”

Enjolras flinches. It must be the third or fourth time in two years, and has probably happened once again due to a chain of unfortunate events. “I'm sorry to hear that”, he says, “Are you sure the dismissal was on due and proper notice?”

Bossuet just shrugs. “They're closing down, there's nothing to be done.”

“Dude, how could you've ever quit law?”, Bahorel shouts, shoving Bossuet so hard he almost falls off his chair. “Let me hire you for some weeks to file paperwork, I need someone to neaten my shit.”

“I'll keep my ears open as well”, Feuilly says, and then suddenly everyone stops talking as Joly and Grantaire burst into boisterous laughter (high and clear versus roaring).

“No, no, _no_ ”, Joly squeals, “I'm pretty sure he got _sacked_.”

“Must've hurt – did you guys at least get in the sack later?”

Bossuet tears his attention away from Feuilly, a wide grin slowly spreading on his face. “Okay, man, I'll stick with _they gave me the boot_.”

Enjolras scowls as he watches the three of them. He has absolutely no idea what is going on, but apparently Bossuet is okay with whatever his best friends are doing, and Joly tugs at the hem of his sleeve, smiling broadly and an actual tear rolling down his cheek: “Was it – 'Suet, was it a _booty call_?”

Bossuet throws his head back and laughs this deep, contagious laugh of his, then pulls Joly on his lap and plasters a kiss on his shoulder. (Joly blushes.)

“Dude, I'd black your boots any time”, says Grantaire, only to be smacked on the head by Musichetta. He ducks away, then raises his eyes to grin at Enjolras, exuberant and _wild_ , and it knocks Enjolras off his stride and he has to look away.

“Fine”, he says, a lot more sternly than intended, “now that we know you didn't get laid when you got laid off, _can we please move on_ –”

He loses track of what he wants to say once again when Courfeyrac gives him a thumbs up, stage-whispering: “My son, all grown up!”

“Was that a joke?”, Grantaire asks loudly, “I'm sorry, but I need to know before I exhaust myself while laughing.”

“Be my guest”, Enjolras says in a very dignified tone. “And while we're at it, I don't think of 1000 A5 pamphlets at night.” He's rubbing his temples, staring back into the confused faces of his friends who don't seem to get that he's talking about the colour code. “Also, we're a non-violent group –”

“Then why do we have a 20% ratio of black eyes to members after every protest? Even Marius had one the last time –”, Musichetta mutters. Enjolras isn't completely sure of it, but Marius looks like he's proud of that. “The statistics is nonsense”, he mumbles, though, trying to shove it off, “Bahorel always has at least 5 –”

“That's not how –”, Éponine starts off, only to interrupt herself almost immediately again, silently shaking her head and looking back at her phone screen.

Combeferre sighs audibly. “How about we call it a day?”

 

Enjolras takes his time to collect and sort his documents while everyone is gathering their belongings and getting ready to leave. He looks up for a moment to nod at Courfeyrac who's putting on his cat-eared hat, waving and mouthing _I'll be home._ Something about his gesture strikes him as odd, and it's minutes later that he realises Courf used their secret sign language back from elementary school to tell him to “behave”.

It's mostly due to the absence of noise that Enjolras notices that the backroom has finally cleared. Involuntarily, he lets out a little sigh. The silence is disturbed almost immediately, though, by an elaborate rhythm tapped on the floor with a broom, and Enjolras sighs again. “Let's get going?”, he asks, shoving the stack of paper in his messenger back and pointedly looking up at Grantaire.

During the last few years, it has become a habit that it's the two of them who do the tidying up that Mme Houcheloup insists on. At first, they had a rotating system. Then their friends would come up with all sorts of ploys in order to trick them into thinking it was their turn – they hadn't gotten along very well at that time, to say the least, and Enjolras still wonders whether there are candid camera records that are kept from him – and at some point they'd just volunteered to do the chores permanently. It's not as if it's much of a burden to put fourteen chairs on a table and give the floor a sweep, but Enjolras is still not exactly sure how it happened. He's also not sure when they started to take at least half an hour for a task that could be finished in five minutes without any problems and when they'd delayed their discussions to the front room of the Musain in order to accompany them with hot chocolate. (He suspects the hot chocolate was his idea, though.) When he first met Grantaire in 12th grade, spending time together was _demanding_ for both of them, in an utterly nerve-wracking way. Now he finds that he's become attached to the tradition of them spending time together after everyone has left, and that he looks forward to that little moment when…okay, _yes_ , Enjolras has just stood there for about thirty seconds, staring at Grantaire and completely missing his reply. Great.

To cover his moment of abstraction, he resolutely marches over to Grantaire and takes the broom out of his hands mid-drum solo, not without casting a little glance at the notes written all over his skin in ball-pen blue. “You always leave out the corners”, he explains. It sounds like an accusation, and he's surprised about how harsh his voice sounds.

“That's because we don't actually make a mess out of the corners”, Grantaire says patiently. “We usually sit at the table, you know –”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. He hasn't started sweeping yet because Grantaire hasn't started stacking the chairs on the table, and he feels a bit self-conscious just standing there with a broomstick in his right hand. It has the perfect height to rest his chin on top of it, though. He rests his chin on top of it.

“Just because”, he says, glaring at Grantaire, “ _some people_ trail chaos behind them wherever they go –”

Grantaire interrupts him, which is maybe for the best, because Enjolras is not entirely sure how he wanted to form his argument in favour of proper sweeping. “Okay, I get that this subtle allusion was meant to refer to me, but this coming from the guy who once picked as many fights in three months as I did in my entire life? A bold statement, I'd say, very bold –”

“It was four”, Enjolras says very calmly, “and doesn't count as causing chaos –”

“Five – you always try to cover up the _Bastille_ incident.” Grantaire grins at him, batting his eyelashes. “And it's easy for you to say that, considering the fact that you got yourself knocked unconscious every time and probably remember half of it at the very most –”

Enjolras shoots him a dark look, as he does every time someone mentions the story of how he got drunk with Courfeyrac and Combeferre and one of them decided it was a great idea to grab a handful of plastic forks and storm into the restaurant _Le Bastille_ , all while singing the _marseillaise_ . They were arrested for that, and Ferre, still drunk, exitedly told Bahorel all about it when he called him from the police station . Of course, this was at least four years ago, which is why Enjolras can maintain a dignified silence when this topic is addressed. He will simply ignore Grantaire. He _can_.

(It works for about five seconds.)

“ _Also_ ”, he says with emphasis, “two out of five don't count as 'every time', that is terrible handling of statistics, and anyway, punching people doesn't necessarily cause chaos, whereas, _for example_ , getting Feuilly and Bossuet to help you paint our info booth like a British phone cell and changing everyone's contacts to 'Perkins' the day before a rally, _does –_ ”, he has to stop to breathe and Grantaire is giving him a weird look and he loses track of what he wanted to say mid-sentence.

There's a pause.

“Although it did look pretty good”, Enjolras mumbles, and “Okay”, Grantaire blurts out at the same time, “this is pretty much out of context and a little bit random, but I wanted to ask you later and I'm just going to ask you now, because, whatever, okay, never mind, I wanted to ask you if there's a chance you might want to grab a coffee with me?”

Enjolras blinks.

“Coffee?”, he echoes, mainly to stall for time. There's something going over his head in this conversation, because they were going to have hot chocolate in the dining area anyway, and there's something off with the way Grantaire asked.

Suddenly, Enjolras is overcome with nervousness. He's not entirely sure why, he just realises that he's tense within seconds, pulse throbbing in his ears. It's enough to let him become aware again of all the little noises in the room at full volume, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, the buzzing of the ventilation, the vibration of a car driving by down on the street and a housefly scrabbling about at the breath-clouded window, and his jumper has been itching for hours, and he fidgets with the broom, runs his fingers through his hair and doesn't even fully realise that Grantaire is nodding in response to his question.

He concentrates on breathing to get over with it. It works, again, he only needs a few seconds to get back on track.

“Sorry, no”, he says. It still almost sounds like a question. “I don't – not really, no.”

Grantaire shoots him a look that Enjolras can't identify. “It's no problem, not at all, it's fine, I'm sorry –”, but there's something really wrong with the way he looks away while he's talking. “No offense taken”, Enjolras says as lightly as possible, carefully leaning the broom at the wall and walking over to get his bag. It's simply no use, he needs to get some rest, or he'll crack again at the next occasion. “I just don't feel like it. Would it okay for you if I left the rest to you?”

He turns back to smile at Grantaire before he leaves, but he's still wearing this confusing expression Enjolras can't place, and when he gets home he realises that he forgot to say goodbye after all.

 

Enjolras feels better as soon as he's finally able to shut the door to his room behind him and collapse on the bed. He closes his eyes and lets everything rush in again, trying to breathe it through.

Days like these have been known to happen every now and then ever since he can remember. Combeferre discoveredthe term _sensory overload_ and that there were strategies to handle it when they were fifteen, maybe sixteen. Enjolras doesn't exactly like to bring up the topic because he doesn't want his friends to fuss about him at every rally, but right now it's reassuring that Courfeyrac is in on it and just silently enters Enjolras's room to place his noise-canceling headphones over his ears and to tug a note in his hand that probably says something like _I made tea._

When he checks it maybe half an hour later, it says _I made hot chocolate_ , which is even better, and Enjolras follows the delicious scent into their tiny kitchen/living room where Courfeyrac is apparently watching a documentary about brown bears on mute. (Enjolras catches a glimpse of Marius the cat sneaking out of the room as soon as he enters, not without shooting him an evil look. He's about 90% sure he's plotting something.)

“And here we can catch the rare sight of a wild Enjolras's foraging behaviour”, Courfeyrac comments in his documentary narrator voice when he spots him lingering in the doorway. “His keen scenting abilities allow him to localise all kinds of sugary goods even over long distances. From the way his head hair protrudes not unlike a dandelion, we are able to tell that he's just come out of hibernation.”

In the meantime, Enjolras has discovered the Thermos which contains the advertised chocolate, because he _is_ good at this, and poured two mugs of it. “So”, Courfeyrac says casually after he has shot Enjolras a sharp look and apparently concluded that he's doing better, “I heard you rejected Grantaire earlier?”

Enjolras nearly drops his mug. “What”, he says. It's not even a question.

Courfeyrac pats the empty space on the sofa next to him and waits until Enjolras has safely sat down. “He asked you on a date and you declined?”, he elaborates.

Enjolras blinks.

“Okay, first of all. How do you even know about this?”, he says after what seems like minutes. It's probably the safest route to go down at the moment, with some parts of his conversation with Grantaire slowly falling into place.

“You know how there's no privacy in our group, right? Bossuet texted me because he wanted to know what's going on after he was told by Jolllly who prized it out of Grantaire.”

Enjolras kind of wishes he could bury his face in his hands, but. There's still the mug.

“He didn't ask for a date or anything”, he explains slowly, because he didn't, _right,_ and _if_ Grantaire wanted to ask him out, why didn't he, like. You know. Mention the word _date._ “He asked for coffee. I thought he meant it as in _r_ _ight now._ So I said no. It's not like I told him I hate him?”, he adds, caught off track about how confused he sounds.

Courfeyrac pulls him into a quick hug. “It seems like he was using _coffee_ as a coded expression”, he explains reluctantly. Enjolras flinches. Out of nothing, he's feeling uncomfortable again. “But it's no big deal, you can just call him and clear it up –”

“And what? Tell him I'd like to go on a date with him?”

“Well, you can. But you don't have to.”

Enjolras stares at his mug for a moment, before he places it on the kitchen table behind him and finally gets to do a proper face-palm. “I don't think I want to. Date him, I mean”, he mutters against his hands.

“Because of Grantaire or because of dating?”

It's debatable, Enjolras thinks, face still buried in his hands. In the end, it comes down to how you define the term. If _dating_ is spending time alone with a person you like, he's clearly okay with that. (He has _always_ liked spending time with Grantaire. Even six years ago when they first met and he would come home still fuming about Grantaire's opinions for hours. Even four years ago when Grantaire started university and attended their meetings more regularly and they still turned it into a late-night controversial talk show no matter the original intent. And it's been about three years of post-cleaning sessions in the Musain, so obviously Enjolras likes spending time alone with Grantaire now.) But if _dating_ is necessarily an indication for romantic feelings involved, he's lost, and if it's the first step on the way to a relationship, there will be some awkward talking to do. From what he's gathered, it's one of the latter most of the time.

“Because of dating”, he finally says. He determinedly doesn't think about why his face is heating up despite his best attempts to fight it. (It's always futile. Feuilly refers to this problem as “The Curse of the Freckled”, but Enjolras tries his best to hide the fact that it applies to him as well. Blushing has about the same effect as being an angry crier, and he's been there, it just leads to not being taken seriously.) “ _Courf_ ”, he adds pleadingly, “you know I don't do. Dating. I just don't like it. And I won't change my mind, not even for Grantaire.”

“And that's perfectly okay”, Courfeyrac assures him. “Then why don't you – watch out, this is a _revolutionary_ idea – tell him you're not comfortable with dates and it's got nothing to do with him?”

“You're sure he wont, like, think it's a. You know. Flimsy excuse?”

“We could act it out”, Courfeyrac suggests, probably only half joking, “I can do a formidable Grantaire impersonation.”

Enjolras throws a pillow at his head because that's how the hierarchy works with the three of them: Combeferre gets to toss things at Enjolras and Enjolras gets to toss things at Courfeyrac. (In return, sometimes Courfeyrac gets to smack Combeferre's and Enjolras's heads together while complaining loudly and dramatically about them. It has something to do with bad puns and the quality of ideas, he supposes. Joly would probably make a chart for it.)

“Anyways”, he says, twisting himself over the backrest of the sofa and reaching out for one of the piles of paperwork that are stacked on the kitchen table (he's not changing the subject, he's _not_ ), “Feuilly's made some drafts for the pamphlets we wanted to distribute to raise awareness for the rally, so I want you”, he finally manages to grab hold of them and relaxes back into a normal sitting position, “to read them. I like the third one best, but Feuilly was under the impression that the text was too lengthy, so we need a second opinion.” He grabs his glasses from the little side table Combeferre brought home two weeks ago and turns to face Courfeyrac expectantly. (Ferre refused to mention where he got it from, so that probably means he got it from Éponine who got it from Azelma who got it from Montparnasse and it was involved in some sort of illegal action, although Enjolras can't imagine a crime in which a Mahogany table could come in handy.)

Courfeyrac is grinning, but he also started reading the first pamphlet, so Enjolras won't complain. “It's amazing every single time”, he mutters, “Your entire posture has changed in, like, ten seconds. It's like talking about _the cause_ is your superhero transformation. Some day, you'll spin around, rip your hoodie apart and fly into the sunset with a rainbow cape waving after you.”

Enjolras would never admit that this actually sounds worth striving for.

 

> **[from Feuilly:]** _Coffee, tomorrow, at the Musain? :)_
> 
> **[to Feuilly:]** _Sounds perfect, what time? :)_
> 
> **[from Feuilly:]** _14.30, if that works for you? Then I could attend my yoga class later. :)_
> 
> **[to Feuilly:]** _Wait, I didn't know you were still going? :)_
> 
> **[from Feuilly:]** _Well, who would have guessed, but Bahorel's a great teacher. :)_
> 
> **[to Feuilly:]** _I have only dark and horrible memories about yoga. :D_
> 
>  
> 
> **[from Courfeyrac:]** w _ill you and feuilly ever stop ending EVERY text with a smiley_
> 
> **[to Courfeyrac:]** _Courf, you're literally sitting right next to me. Also, as I like texting Feuilly, I am_ _perfectly well_ _entitled to use as many_ _emoticons_ _as I want to._
> 
> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _are you not happy to text me???_

 

* * *

 

At first, Enjolras tries to stall talking to Grantaire until their next meeting, but after three days he has to admit it was a bad decision to begin with. It makes him jittery. And he's not going to beat himself up about this any longer just because something went over his head. At the very least, Enjolras is not the type of person to delay things because they're inconvenient. So instead of going to the canteen during his lunch break on Thursday, he sneaks into an empty seminar room to call Musichetta. He has contemplated his strategy all morning and has come to the conclusion that of all of the Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta/Grantaire household, she is most likely to know Grantaire's schedule and least likely to warn him about his advance (given that he can convince her of his honourable motives, at least).

Musichetta is busy when she picks up, but that's no surprise. Ever since she started her own enterprise, there's probably not been a single minute when that wasn't the case. Come to think about it, however, Bossuet is still as laid back as before even though she hired him part-time a few months ago, so it could also simply be a Musichetta thing.

“Ciriello Event Catering, this is Musichetta speaking, how can I help you today?”

“Uh, it's, uhm, Enjolras”, Enjolras says.

In lieu of a response, Musichetta starts cursing in rapid Italian. Enjolras picks up the words that sound similar to French, which are _merda_ and _rettile_ , although he has to admit that he only figured out the second one because the name _Captain Danton II_ is mentioned in context. (Captain Danton II is Joly's pet lizard. If Enjolras remembers it correctly, Bossuet rescued a senior lizard from an animal shelter when he moved in with Joly. He named it Georges Danton because he felt that they showed an uncanny resemblance and Joly added the title just for radness. Bossuet then proceeded to build a huge terrarium for Captain Danton, but not only did he break one of his arms in the process, but the lizard also happened to pass away exactly three minutes after it was completed. Hence, _the second_.)

“Hi there, what can I do for you?”, Musichetta asks after about half a minute as if there hasn't been any interruption.

“Well, erm.” Enjolras clears his throat in order to gain a second to get his mind back on track. “Do you happen to know what Grantaire's, you know, next class is?”

“Wait a second, this should be somewhere on the fridge”, Musichetta mutters. The noises in the background sound as if she's moving huge piles of…heavy stuff. Suddenly, there's a loud crash and she starts cursing again, still sounding weirdly good-natured while at it. Enjolras waits patiently. “Ah, there it is”, she finally says. “Next thing up is…Latin IIB, starting in exactly…53 minutes. But he's been in the library studying for this Archeology thing of his all morning, so if you manage to be there in less than 20 minutes, you could probably catch him when he's leaving there.”

“Which library? Michelet?”

“Correct. You know, this is a really cute thing to do, so I'll probably _not_ chase you through the apartment with a cooking spoon next time you come over”, Musichetta says conversationally.

“Well”, Enjolras says. “That's reassuring. I guess.”

He thanks Musichetta for the information and hangs up. The Michelet library is about a kilometer away from the faculty of law if he takes the direct route and ignores the fact that he doesn't like walking along the loud and broad boulevards at all. Although it should be no problem to get there within the 20 minutes threshold like that, he tries jogging. Unfortunately, Enjolras is not as athletic as most people seem to assume, and, heavily panting, he gives up halfway along the Boulevard Saint-Michel after he's been overtaken by three overly motivated runners and a kid with their dog. He hopes he's still on time when he positions himself on the parking lot in front of the Art and Archeology faculty's main entrance and keeps an eye on the students leaving the building.

He tugs on his hoodie laces until they're the same length.

He paces back and forth in front of a dark blue car, nearly getting run over by a moped.

He comes to the conclusion that this is absolutely ridiculous and _why didn't he just text Grantaire?_ (Because he didn't know what to write. Because _normally_ , his talking skills are better than his texting skills, which is why he calls more often than he texts. Because he has this bad habit to want to get things done immediately once he decides to get them done in the first place.)

Enjolras stays nevertheless, because there's no way he made a 500 meter run for nothing, and delaying the problem won't solve it. He's also not going to feel uncomfortable about this incident any longer. So he'll clear it up. (He has to keep himself from going over what he wants to say again, because he's got this. He _has_.)

So maybe he's absentmindedly chewing on one of the hoodie laces when he finally spots a familiar green beanie in a group of students he doesn't recognize. As they're slowly advancing, Enjolras can see that Grantaire must be telling some sort of funny story, because the others are obviously cracking up. He seems so relaxed that Enjolras finds himself involuntarily smiling, too. He hides his smile, though, when Grantaire spots him, because he doesn't want his explanation to seem insincere, and Grantaire, not showing any sign of being surprised to see Enjolras here, simply says goodbye to his friends and walks over, his skateboard tugged under his left arm.

“Hey”, Enjolras says as soon as Grantaire is in earshot, because he can't stand awkward silences right now.

“Hey”, Grantaire says. When Enjolras doesn't elaborate immediately, he wets his lips in a little nervous gesture and launches into rambling. “Okay, first of all, I'm impressed that we managed to make this greeting as awkward as possible without even mentioning the fact that it's not exactly a regular sight for you to show up out of nothing at our humble faculty. Actually, I would guess that the last sighting of a wild law student in this quarter, which I would be inclined to call the Elysian fields of the Paris University despite the obvious advantages of the law faculty's magnificent architecture and the fact that the noble name of Bossuet is carved in its ancient stones, dates back to about 1976, and most probably they were chased off the grounds with the _aklys_ replica from our fine weapon collection, so your presence is, however pleasant it might be, still a surprise, and unfortunately not a very well-timed one, as I might add, because I want to fetch something to eat before my next class. If I learned anything during the last two years it's that Latin is not endurable on an empty stomach”, he finishes rather matter-of-factly.

Enjolras is a bit dumb-funded because this conversation didn't go the way he planned, and also a bit distracted by the way one of Grantaire's curls sticks out perpendicular to his forehead and bobs in time with his gesturing. It's irritating and it probably resulted in him looking straight over Grantaire's head as he was talking. He swallows. _Get things done_ , he reminds himself. This is just another speech, just another time he wants to be convincing, so _look Grantaire in the eyes and smile lightly_.

“Er”, he says. “Well.”

Grantaire is watching him carefully. He wears a curious expression that Enjolras can't really place, something in the lines of caution or concern, maybe. It's hard to tell with him, always has been for Enjolras. He closes his eyes for a second in order to not get distracted again and to remind himself that he can do this because he is good at talking. He _is_.

“I've picked up that you might have. Asked me on a date. On Monday, I mean. I didn't realise at that time, I simply thought you'd asked for a coffee, you know. Immediately.”

Okay, so he isn't, not with this.

“It was, like, 10 pm.”, Grantaire says, smiling tentatively. “Considering that we all learned our lesson of not granting you access to caffeine after the evening news ever since you got hyped on Ép's espresso at the Harry Potter marathon –”

“I wasn't _hyped_ ”, Enjolras huffs. (He stopped counting years ago how many times he's told himself to stick to his original lines of argument no matter what. Yet, he still comes home from their post-cleaning meetings and has to write an intense after-midnight e-mail to Grantaire explaining everything he didn't get to say because he took every single one of his baits _once again_. His in-box is full of early-morning responses that range from one-sentence disassemblies to pages filled with existential ramblings.)

“Weird”, Grantaire says, “and I have such a vivid memory of you ranting about the misrepresentation of the first Order of the Phoenix at five in the morning.”

“This is absolutely _not_ the point”, Enjolras says and, no, he is definitely not blushing, this is simply not happening.

“Okay, so...” Grantaire trails off, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I still don't want to go”, Enjolras says hurriedly, and then he sighs, because maybe he should have acted this out with Courfeyrac (which is probably the scariest thought he has had in the last five years). “I mean. I don't go on dates. Like, never.”

“Okay?”, Grantaire says. He squints when the sun chooses this moment to come out behind the fluffy white clouds that are sprinkling the sky. Almost immediately, the wind doesn't seem to be as cold anymore and Enjolras gets warm in his black hoodie. He remembers Courfeyrac's advice and quickly adds, “It's got nothing to to with you, though. I'd like to, you know. Talk to you more often than once a week after the tidying.” He _is_ blushing now and doesn't even know why. “If you'd like to, too. Just. No dates.”

Grantaire considers this for a few seconds. In the distance, Enjolras can still hear the constant flow of cars on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, accompanied by some really obtrusive birds in the park who sound like they're currently staging an uprising. “Okay”, Grantaire says. “I'd like that, too.”

“That's that?”

“Yeah. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable.”

They have to jump out of the way of a motorbike aiming for the lot behind them. A moment later, a student scrambles off the adventurously parked vehicle and runs toward the entrance of the library, an elaborate succession of curses trailing behind them.

“So, um”, Enjolras says cautiously. “You wanted to get some food?”

Grantaire is biting on his lower lip again. “I know this place”, he says, “five minutes from here. The food they serve is _wicked_. Completely nuts when you read the description, and maybe a bit over the top concerning the arrangement, but not pricey, and it's _delicate_ , they make these really extraordinary flavour combinations – okay, stop making _the face_ , I get it, you'll hate it.”

Enjolras isn't entirely sure what _the face_ looks like, but he tries to turn it into a hopeful expression. “What about pizza?”

“No way I'm paying for that”, Grantaire says resolutely. “Either they'll be drastically falling behind Musichetta's cooking skills or the food will remind me painfully of the stuff Joly and Bossuet produce in kitchen when they want to surprise her for date night. Sushi?”

Enjolras finds that it's harder than usual to keep the corners of his mouth down.

“There's this place –”, both of them start simultaneously, only to interrupt themselves. Enjolras tries to glare, but it doesn't seem to work because Grantaire is laughing, curls bobbing in step. Maybe to assure himself that he is still perfectly capable of using his words, thank you very much, he says with emphasis: “I am _not_ accompanying you to one of those fancy ass restaurants you love so much for unknown and inexplicable reasons.”

It's sounding a lot more harsher than he intended once again. Apparently, he has only two operational modes today, which are stuttering and snarling. Great.

“Wow, let's not forget that you invited yourself”, Grantaire says.

It's always been like that – one remark leads to another, and one wrong word to one of them snapping. Enjolras already has a snarky remark on the tip of his tongue, it's an automatism, really, but there's a hint of a tone in Grantaire's voice that tells him with a sudden realization that this time, he's not trying to rile him up. He stares at him confusedly, trying to find the words to file this impression, but he can't put it straight.

“Okay”, he hears himself say, “how about we negotiate a compromise?”

 

> **[** **from Combeferre:** **]** _remember that time when i said i wasn't sure if i was ready for this? i shouldve thought about whether gavroche is ready for this_
> 
> **[** **from Combeferre:** **]** _because hes definitely not ready for this_

 

* * *

 

“You know, I would have accompanied you even if I'd known it was a musical”, Enjolras says drowsily. It's Thursday again, and it's late, and he has to get up early tomorrow, but their favourite cinema gives students' discounts on Thursdays and Courfeyrac really wanted to watch _Into the Woods_ , so.

Courfeyrac shoots him a genuinely surprised look. “What else could it have been?”, he asks. He has to raise his voice a bit in order to drown the second announcement of the station and the ever-present _Attention à la marche en descendant du train. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. Attenzione al gradino scendendo dal treno._ “I just assumed it'd be obvious.”

Enjolras rests his head on Courfeyrac's shoulder, which isn't comfortable at all considering the fact how much smaller Courf is, but the train noises floating into the car through the tilted windows combined with its little rocking movements have about the same effect on him as a cradle would have. Only when it's late and the stations are not crowded anymore and you get a seat, of course, but right now, the only other person in the wagon is an old man very solemnly reading _Metro News._

Courfeyrac hums a little melody that sounds familiar, but it takes Enjolras nearly up to the next station to make the connection that it's from the musical they've just watched. “Oh no”, he says. “This is going to be your next big obsession, isn't it?”

He can literally _hear_ Courfeyrac grin. “It was pretty great, right?” He waits until the announcement is over again, then lightly adds, “So I came across Paris-Descartes this afternoon by chance and thought I'd check on Ferre, but he was busy dissecting some bodies or whatever med students do all day long.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Two of our best friends have been studying medicine for about five years now, even I have gathered that they don't dissect bodies all the time.”

“Not _always_ ”, Courfeyrac admits, “but far more often than I'd have thought. Anyway, _excellent_ cue, Enjolras, because guess who I met while I was elegantly leaving?”

“What did Joly say?”, Enjolras sighs.

“You're ruining my story”, Courfeyrac complains. “So, yes, _exactly_ , it was Jolllly, and he was on his lunch break, so we went to that tea house, you know, at Cosette's mosque, and talked for an hour.”

“Must've been nice”, Enjolras says. He doesn't open his eyes yet, but he's on guard. “I haven't talked to him outside meetings for a while.”

“It was”, Courfeyrac agrees. “For example, he told me how Grantaire was really unsure about whether he could ask you over to their flat for dinner, or if you'd decline if he did.”

There it is. Enjolras buries his face in the purple and pink checkered track suit top Courf is wearing and groans. For an answer, he gets patted on his head again. “You know”, Courfeyrac says gently, “I think he might be a little bit confused and I don't think we can blame him?”

“I might be a little bit confused, too”, Enjolras murmurs so faintly its barely audible. He turns his head to look up to Courfeyrac and explains reluctantly, “I just, you know. I really don't know what to do. We've talked more, recently, and it was pretty nice”, and why is he blushing again, this is just not fair, because there was a time when he criticized Marius every week for being blushy and not paying attention to their meetings and he honestly used to be a little smug about being able to keep any distracting feelings at bay, so _why is this happening_ , “I just don't know where this is going?”

Courfeyrac is still patting his curls. It's oddly soothing. “And you don't have to know right now. You should just, maybe, try to give him a few more hints on what you're comfortable with?”

It runs like a golden thread through all of his life choices that his friends always seem to be right, Enjolras thinks. At least when it comes to interpersonal relations. Grantaire is still terribly wrong about some things, although Enjolras's urges to complain about them non-stop to Ferre and Courf have ceased dramatically. Come to think of it, he remembers Grantaire's outrageous claim that Ron could have never been sorted into Slytherin, which is definitely a topic that has to be addressed in a detailed e-mail once he gets home.

Enjolras misses their station's announcement because he's already making a bucket list and has to concentrate on not forgetting any points, and Courfeyrac has to poke him in order to get him off him. “ _Into the woods, it's time to go, I hate to leave, I have to go_ ”, he sings as the train arrives in the station. It's a mystery to Enjolras how he has memorized the English lyrics so quickly, but then again, it's Courfeyrac, and there's really no other explanation needed.

 

Here's why Enjolras doesn't like dates: Dates are never only _dates_ , they have an agenda. They are supposed to lead to a relationship, or sex, or both, and people tend to assume that you're not fundamentally disinclined to any of these when you're going out with them once. Explaining that you have absolutely no idea if you want to be in a romantic relationship at all and that you'll never have sex with them (not now, not in six months, not in ten years) makes everything confusing and complicated. Not telling them, on the other side, means leading them on.

It's too easy to mess things up for him to offhandedly go on a date with Grantaire.

So he won't.

 

> **[** **to Combeferre:** **]** _Do you know that song in Into the Woods when Cinderella is stuck to the palace stairs?_
> 
> **[to Combeferre:]** _And Chris Pine casually_ _waits_ _in the background?_
> 
> **[to Combeferre:]** _He just stands there watching her perform the song for about three minutes..._
> 
> **[** **to Combeferre:** **]** _...pining._
> 
> **[** **to Combeferre:** **]** _:D_
> 
> **[** **to Combeferre:** **]** _Ferre?_

 

* * *

 

“So, just for the record”, Combeferre says, “You're giving us a guarantee that _Bambi_ isn't as sad as _The Fox and the Hound_?”

“Totally.” Courfeyrac nods his head so violently his dark curls are bouncing up and down like little coil springs. “I mean, come on, it's a movie about a _fawn_. What could possibly happen?”

Combeferre and Enjolras exchange a musing look before they make their decision.

“Okay.”  
“But I can assure you in return that you will be held completely responsible if anything goes wrong”, Enjolras says. “Your testimony can be attested by two witnesses and –”

“Oh my god, Enjolras, you're turning into one of those soul-selling cliché lawyers.” Courfeyrac throws himself into a dramatic pose on the kitchen table, reaching into the empty air above him. “Please”, he gasps, “we have to remove him from university. Save him from his professors. Prevent him from graduating. Do the Bahorel. Or Bossuet. Anything!”

Enjolras might be a little bit grumpy, but he's also familiar enough with _Into the Woods_ at this point to assess that Courfeyrac is already past the point of no return. Luckily the doorbell rings ten seconds into his performance of _Agony_. Combeferre shoots Enjolras a sympathetic look before he answers the door and comes back with Grantaire in his trail just as Courfeyrac has been convinced to close his shirt again.

“Why, R, how lovely to have you over”, Courfeyrac says when Grantaire stands in the doorway, indecisively, restlessly twisting his beanie in his hands. It's one of those Courf things, again, that everything he says, no matter how over the top it may be, sounds absolutely sincere. Grantaire, on the other hand, looks like he's not sure how to feel about this enthusiastic greeting, or maybe about the being-invited-to-watch-Disney-movies thing as a whole. Maybe Enjolras hasn't thought this through. (Maybe Enjolras's heart is pounding from nervousness.) But then again, he has talked it over with Combeferre and they both agreed it would be a good way to give Grantaire the signal that he meant it when he said he wanted to spend more time with him without making it awkward.

“Hi”, he says as curtly as possible. He doesn't want this to end in a stuttering accident like in front of the library, and he's still not sure about how this happened in the first place, so. “Glad you could make it.”

Courfeyrac shoots him a glance that tells him he's not content with him at all, but Enjolras can't imagine what he has done wrong again and he doesn't exactly need more things to stress about. “Yes”, Courfeyrac adds, pulling Grantaire into the kitchen/living room by his hands, “Enjolras would've been _devastated_ if you hadn't come.”

“Courf”, Combeferre says warningly, which has the effect that now everyone is looking uncomfortable. Also, the room is pretty crowded with four people in it. Grantaire breaks the silence by pulling a plastic bag out of his backpack, “Musichetta made panzerotti this morning, so I stole some before I left, I hear that you guys mostly live on pasta these days”, he says, drumming a little rhythm on the tin foil. His hands are especially blue today. Enjolras makes out the words _guessed the names_ on Grantaire's left thumb, in caps.

Courfeyrac snatches the bag out of his hand and, yes, _sniffs_ at it before he lets out an appreciative sigh. “Enjolras, what blatant lies do you tell?”, he mutters nonetheless.

Enjolras raises his right eyebrow (this time, he's sure it worked). “Don't fool yourself, we had toast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner yesterday.”

“It's because he can't wrap his head around the fact that you have to do grocery shopping in the daytime”, Courfeyrac tells Grantaire, pointing accusingly at Enjolras.

“You guys need to take care of yourselves and eat properly”, Combeferre says dutifully, but the only answer he gets is loud snorting, because Courfeyrac and Enjolras have seen him eating biscuits with pesto for lunch once, right after he gave one of his famous lectures about nutrition. “Should we heat them?”, he adds, looking as if he wants to snatch the plastic bag from Courfeyrac.

“We could, but we don't have to”, says Grantaire, and Enjolras recognizes the beginning of a rant and has to suppress a smile, “that's completely up to us, because they're great either way. In their warm state, they have more proper dinner qualities. When cold, they're more like snacks. The advantage of heating them is that the cheese will melt again –”

Enjolras grabs the bag from a very surprised Courfeyrac and marches over to the oven, or rather: squeezes past Grantaire and the kitchen table in order to get over there. Grantaire shuts up the second their shoulders brush and for a second, everyone is quiet again.

“He's a sucker for melted cheese”, Combeferre finally explains.

“How cheesy. I thought it was chocolate?”

“Both. Maybe not at the same time, though. _Probably_. I quote: _Everything gets better with melted cheese. Even melted cheese gets better with melted cheese._ ”

“No, like seriously”, Courfeyrac supplies, “if you guys have a raclette set, he'll move in with you instantly.”

“We do have a raclette set”, Grantaire says after a second.

“That was over-hasty”, Courfeyrac says as Enjolras slams the oven door and asks, because it's expected, right, “When can I come over?”

“I wish I'd known about your fatal flaws earlier”, Grantaire muses as they sit down at the kitchen table, waiting for the panzerotti to heat up. (Courfeyrac sits on the sofa backrest and Enjolras on an upside down cleaning bucket, his head resting on his knees.) “The possibilities. I'd been able to make you shut up no matter what topic you were ranting about.”

Enjolras knits his brows again, looking up to Grantaire through some wayward curls, “I'm not _that_ easy to impress, you know.”

“He is”, Combeferre says, “one time he offered me his phone in exchange for a bar of chocolate”, and, really, _et tu, Ferre_?

“It was three in the morning and I had a paper due next day”, Enjolras explains patiently. “We all make decisions we eventually regret. Also, it's been five years.”

“Still planning his revenge”, Courfeyrac stage-whispers.

“Did you take the phone?”, Grantaire asks, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Enjolras with this warm expression he sometimes wears and for which Enjolras can't find the words to describe.

Combeferre, casually seated on the chair next to the oven, smirks. “Yes, but I returned it the next day. Not before changing his ring tone to _Fifteen_ by Taylor Swift and swapping mine and Courf's names in his directory, of course. It was...revealing.”

If Enjolras needed any reminder of why Courf and him refer to Combeferre as the evil genius, that's it. Grantaire is laughing this contagious laugh of his, the one that's _very_ close to snorting, and Enjolras finds himself involuntarily smiling, again. It seems to happen quite often these days. “Whoa, wait a minute, _that's_ the story behind your Taylor Swift phase?”, Grantaire says. “I mean, I remember, your sudden interest in pop music seemed kind of _swift_ at that moment –”

Unusually enough, this time it's Combeferre and Courfeyrac who groan in unison. “R, we must immediately forbid you to socially interact with Enjolras, I fear he's been leaning more and more to the punny side of jokes during the last years”, Courfeyrac says sternly.

Enjolras just glares at him. “I came up with the ABC eight years ago.”

“Your _magnum opun_ ”, Grantaire says. Enjolras tries very hard to keep a straight face, but a little giggle escapes him, whereas Courfeyrac lets himself fall dramatically on the sofa.

“So what was that about Enjolras's Taylor Swift phase?”, Combeferre asks.

“It was one of the first times we talked in private, actually”, Grantaire says. “Basically, someone called -”

“– you called”, Enjolras elaborates, pointing at Combeferre himself.

“I laughed about his ring tone and he gave me shit for believing a grown man –”

“Whichhe wasn't”, Courfeyrac tosses in.

“I was”, Enjolras objects, “I'd just turned eighteen.”

“– couldn't wholeheartedly enjoy pop music delivered by a female singer”, Grantaire finishes. “It was fantastic. We were just done putting up the chairs in the back room and you launched into a full five minute speech, practically pinning me up against the wall and assailing me with your vision of gender-neutral education.”

“Yes, and just when I reached the key point, you interrupted me by taking the broom out of my hands –”

“Which had come dangerously close to my face, in my defense.”

“– looked me dead in the eye and said _I_ _'_ _m a ballet dancer._ ”

“You nearly exploded”, Grantaire says, smiling. “ _Your personal experiences don't invalidate the greater picture_.”

Enjolras frowns, tilting his head. “You're leaving out the part where I was honestly interested in your personal experiences, but you went ahead to tell me that _the fact that I was_ _out of school_ _didn't mean that I_ _knew everything and_ _was capable of changing_ _anything_ _._ ”

“Admittedly, you haven't changed the world yet”, Grantaire says, and Enjolras grins a little bit, because he's not sure if Grantaire wanted it to sound like it, but he only heard the word _yet_. There's a little pause again, then Grantaire says, “So I apologized some time later, but he still used to make a point about listening to Taylor every time we met after that.”

“I hadn't, before”, Enjolras admits. “I bought some of her albums just to maintain cover. I grew quite fond of her, though.”

Courfeyrac scrambles back on the backrest to exchange a look with Combeferre. “Wow”, he says, “nothing sweeter than memories of how you nearly knocked each other out with a broomstick. I always wondered what was going on during those cleaning up sessions.”

“So there are no, like, candid camera records?”, Enjolras asks quickly, because if he doesn't ask now, he might never find out.

Combeferre bursts out in laughter. Before Enjolras has the time to wonder what that's supposed to mean, the kitchen clock rings, remindingCombeferre to check on the panzerotti, and they squeeze on the sofa with their plates in the hands, anticipating the movie. “Marius, no!”, Enjolras scolds when the cat, who seems to have materialized out of nowhere only to occupy the space between him and Courfeyrac, maliciously digs its claws into his leg, and everyone cracks up because apparently he sounded exactly like that back when Marius tried to establish Cosette as an item of their agenda at the beginning of every meeting.

Grantaire wordlessly hands Enjolras a handkerchief when he gets teary-eyed, but Enjolras is pretty sure he heard him sniff a little, too.

>  
> 
> **[** **from Combeferre:** **]** _were u comfortable with how tonight went?_
> 
> **[** **to Combeferre:** **]** _Yes._
> 
> **[** **to Combeferre:** **]** _Thank you. :)_
> 
> **[** **to Combeferre:]** _We should have noticed Courfeyrac was shitting us about Bambi, though._
> 
> **[** **from Combeferre:** **]** _im never watching disney movies again_
> 
> **[from Combeferre:]** _'_ _what could possibly happen_ _'_
> 
> **[from Combeferre:]** _next time anyone says that to my face il_ _l_ _tell them._ _they could_ _get fucking_ _killed by a deer hunter_

 

* * *

 

After that, they keep having not-a-dates. It becomes an institution, just like meeting Feuilly for lunch at Barohel's parents' restaurant _Le roi de couscous_ every Friday is, and Enjolras finds himself looking forward to them.

Every single one takes extensive planning of at least a thirty-minute phone call the day before, though. In fact, _Le roi de couscous_ seems to be the only choice of food that he and Grantaire can actually agree on (although Grantaire apparently isn't physically able _not_ to remind Enjolras of that time he tried to drunk persuade M and Mme Bahorel to change the name to _Le r_ _e_ _présentant voté de couscous_ , but you have to make amends sometimes). On the back of this, they also have to discuss the means of transportation – Grantaire likes taking the Métro way too much for Enjolras's taste – and time schedules: When they plan to have breakfast together in Enjolras's favourite Brasserie, both of them are shocked to find out that Grantaire's morning starts at least four hours before Enjolras's.

Some of the not-a-dates are disastrous. (Grantaire takes Enjolras on a tour on Bossuet's moped and Enjolras, too stubborn to admit he's afraid, doesn't see a thing of whatever he wanted to show him because he has to keep his eyes shut, only to get nauseous on the backseat. In return, Enjolras drags Grantaire to his favourite ice cream parlour, where he finds outthatGrantaire is lactose intolerant.)

There are also some occasions that seem like catastrophes first, but turn out nice instead. (It's the middle of March, already, but they still go ice-skating on the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville, and Enjolras went there for the last time when he was seven, but with Grantaire it's fun, somehow, though a severe coordination challenge.)

And then there are also the _really_ nice ones, like the time when Enjolras comes to pick up Grantaire for dinner on his way back from university half an hour earlier than agreed, and Grantaire opens the door still half-asleep with an amazing bedhead, wearing flowered sweatpants and a shirt that reads “Show me the Monet”, 60s rock music blaring out of his bedroom at a deafening level, and they end up canceling their reservation at _Le roi de couscous_ and just stay in with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, and Enjolras learns that Grantaire has a habit of getting out of bed at unearthly hours to decorate his room with string art, and that the walls are covered in quotes from his favourite books.

Meeting Grantaire outside the Musain, without a special occasion, is different, and Enjolras doesn't think he would want to go without it again. He gets impatient when some days go by without them making a new appointment. He's talking more about Grantaire, too, he realises that even without Combeferre and Courfeyrac pointing it out to him, his name just keeps slipping out. An allusion to a philosopher Grantaire has made last evening and which Enjolras repeats thoughtlessly, only to add “Grantaire said that” after a second because he won't start concealing his sources now. A pun Grantaire delivered last week and which Enjolras can't properly recount because he's snorting. He also begins blurting out random information he picked up, in a wondering tone. “Grantaire says there's a museum about the city sewers and it's actually pretty interesting?” “That's one of Grantaire's favourite colors, at least according to his latest statement.” “Grantaire can play that song on the ukulele.” He doesn't know where it's coming from, but somehow he also doesn't mind.

It's not as if he got completely rid of any nagging thoughts at the back of his mind, pointing out to him every way in which his not-a-dates with Grantaire are inherently different to meeting up with Feuilly or Combeferre or hanging out with Courfeyrac on the sofa. He can't pin it down, though; the words he comes up with are _softer_ , _fluttery_ , _light_ , which aren't, well, actual proper words to describe a time interval. So he tries to give it not too much thought.

 

The meeting exactly one month after the coffee incident goes well. The pamphlets are ready for distribution, they have successfully contacted the other groups they're cooperating with, Feuilly and Bahorel are ready to mobilize their loose supporters, Courfeyrac and Cosette will start tackling social media, and Combeferre, Joly and Enjolras have worked out a strict plan about when to visit which faculty with their phone cell shaped info booth. At the beginning of the meeting, Grantaire presents his final poster designs and, as always, he has included one suggestion that simply shows _that picture_ of Enjolras in his red hoodie delivering a speech at a rally three years ago, with the direct quote _PROGRESS HAS NO TIME TO LOSE_ placed over it in dramatic block letters. It's become a running gag in their group and while one corner of the back room is decorated with a compilation of every poster they ever used, another one shows variations of this mock design. Enjolras still doesn't know how to feel about it. It _is_ a powerful photo, admittedly, and his friends seem to think it funny, so he's alright with that, but on the other hand, the joke only started when it was featured in a local newspaper and Enjolras still feels uncomfortable remembering being called “the face” of their group. (He had also heard some of his friends talk about the picture circulating on Twitter, but he never looked it up.)

“Do you ever wonder if Mme H. is checking on the room when we're not here?”, Enjolras says after everyone has left and Grantaire pins the real and the mock design at the walls in their respective corners. They're the best ones so far, Enjolras thinks, although he's not exactly an expert in aesthetics.

“Pretty sure she's taking photos for her insurance every week.” Grantaire looks over his shoulder to grin at him. “So what do you think?”, he asks, taking a step back. “Will those posters lure the people to the Protest That Will Change The World, or will only the same ones attend that always do?”

Enjolras furrows his brow once again (his grandma keeps telling him that he'll get wrinkled before he's thirty if he “keeps looking so stern”). “Grantaire, you can have your doubts, you may criticize us as much as you want, but after coming back for six years your bullshit attitude has kind of lost its authenticity.”

He starts stacking up the chairs, and Grantaire joins him, and it's only when they're done that he says, unusually earnest: “I come back for the smaller picture, you know. For those kids reaching out to us for support. That girl Feuilly mentored some years ago. The open telephone thing we established. The anon messages on our blog. The people leaving comments under Cosette's videos. I just don't think you can change the mind of every single asshole in this world. Besides”, he cracks a smile, “I wouldn't waste my time trying to lure unsuspecting citizens to our protests if I thought they were completely pointless.”

Although the argument has already formed in his head, Enjolras thinks about this for a while before he answers, as rare as it is. “But can't you see how it were if we wouldn't _need_ them anymore?”, he finally says. “Not because we stopped answering them, but because – things changed. _People_ changed.”

Grantaire smiles, but it seems a bit melancholic. “Well, of course I can see it when _you_ say it”, he says, and Enjolras looks at him, confused, “but then again, you'll probably defend human rights as a profession a few years from now, doing whatever, changing the world, while I – I don't even know what you do with a classics degree, maybe work as a feather duster in a museum –”

“When Jehan worked at the Musée des arts décoratifs, they thought it was pretty cool”, Enjolras offers. The words are sounding lame, and he has the vague feeling that they didn't address the real problem here.

“Jehan's also changing their profession every other month and is currently working as a night watch at a cemetery”, Grantaire reminds him. He's sounding awed.

“I'm sure you'll find something”, Enjolras says with conviction. “It doesn't actually help to know what you want to do years ahead, I guess? At least you _like_ your studies.”

“Don't you?”

Enjolras stalks over to pick up the broom out of the small closet next to the door. “Not when have to write any essays about, about the, the claim for compensation after the fraudulent vendition of, of fish, or learn _I don't know how many_ stupid article numbers by heart –”

It's a thought that keeps nagging him the more he sees how calmly Grantaire approaches his homework and exams, almost as if he enjoys taking them. Or at least, likes the opportunity to state a bold theory in 5000 words.

“Whoa”, Grantaire says, “this coming from the guy with the straight A certificates.”

Maybe Enjolras is sweeping a bit more violently than necessary. “Just because I get good grades doesn't mean everything is a cakewalk. I'm actually horrible at memorizing numbers”, he admits without looking at Grantaire.

“But you're sprinkling nearly every argument with laws and articles”, Grantaire says incredulously.

Enjolras sighs, ceases sweeping and leans his chin against the top of the broom stick again. “Because I have those little, you know, cue cards”, he says, “and I force Courfeyrac to revise them with me every evening. He already says he wouldn't have moved in with me if he'd known.”

“Ever thought about quitting?”, Grantaire asks as he's getting the dustpan. Enjolras grimaces. “Sure, when Bahorel and Bossuet dropped out. When you quit arts, too. I guess I just wanted to go through with it. Hot chocolate?”, he asks after a little pause, and “Hot _almond milk_ chocolate”, he corrects a second later, blushing, because he still can't believe he hadn't picked that up in all those years. Grantaire looks at him with this other special look he sometimes wears and which Enjolras somehow thinks is quite similar to Joly's reaction that time when Bossuet brought three puppies to one of their meetings for unknown reasons.

“Yeah, always.”

 

Ten minutes later, when they're sitting next to each other on a comfortable plush bench, waiting for their mugs to be delivered, Enjolras asks: “How is it going with your new side job?”

“The ballet classes or the bar tending?”

“You haven't told me about the bar tending yet?”

“It's brand new”, Grantaire grins, “Bahorel recommended me and they couldn't resist my charm. He used to work there before he started his yoga thing on full-time, and they were looking for someone, must've been pretty desperate because as we all know, my work experience stems only from the opposite side of the bar.”

“Will it be alright with you, working there?”, Enjolras says a bit stiffly.

“Enjolras”, Grantaire says in a dark tone, “I wouldn't have taken the job if it weren't.”

“I'm sorry if I –”

“Don't apologize, I also wouldn't have brought it up without being okay with questions. But it's been more than four years now and I actually thought a lot about it before applying, believe it or not, and I'm fine with it. As for the ballet thing, it's pretty amazing, the kids want to talk about my sleeves most of the time, so I've started to bribe them. They'll get to be told the story behind one tattoo during the last five minutes of the class as long as they're behaving before, and”, Grantaire starts laughing his warm laugh again, sounding perplexed at his own story, “you should've seen the face of the administrator when she came to check on us and those seven-year olds all stood at the barre in rank and file with dead serious faces on. I actually had to tell them later that I _still want them to have fun_ as long as they'll listen to my instructions.”

Floréal comes over to their table and slams two steaming mugs between them. “I hope you guys didn't change your minds all of a sudden”, she says, because she's stopped asking for their orders – how long? Months, years? – ago. Which is also Enjolras's only excuse for not noticing the lactose intolerance. “Still coming over later, R?”

“Sure thing”, Grantaire smiles.

“Great, because Ahmed is making dinner and a little bird told me you'll want to dye my hair again.”

“You heard? How nice of you to tell me”, Grantaire says. Enjolras is amazed, because Floréal's hair is at least 10 different shades of pink and purple and almost looks unreal, like she's a merperson or something, and “You're doing her hair?”, he asks incredulously.

Floréal does a theatrical hair flip to show it off. Grantaire tries to play it down, “Feuilly did it once, too”, but she won't let him. “He's a man of many talents”, she says, ruffling his beanie. “Oh, and Enjolras, now that we're already talking about hair –”

“No, Flo, _don't_ –”, Grantaire groans. Fascinatingly enough, his face is turning a nice-looking shade of pink and he's tugging at the hem of his hat as if he wants to pull it over his eyes.

“I've been wondering for years, to be honest”, Floréal continues, completely unimpressed. “Is your hair naturally curly?”

Enjolras blinks. “Yes”, he says. “Why?”

Instead of an actual answer, Floréal flutters her eyelashes at Grantaire with a smug grin. “Because he owes me ten euros now for suspecting you pin-curl it –”

“ _Flo_.”

“Really”, Enjolras asks, one eyebrow raised and hopefully wearing his completely neutral expression.

“That was ages ago”, Grantaire mutters. He's taken off his hat now and is twisting it so fast in his hands that it becomes hard to follow. Then a little mischievous grin tugs at one corner of his mouth. “It was actually a regular topic of discussion in the kid's corner of the Musain. Jolllly and Bossuet even believed you dyed it, so one night we tried to break into your student residence to find incriminating hair colorants. Combeferre nabbed us at the front door, though, and drove us home. Ah, sweet memories.”

To be honest, Enjolras doesn't know what to make of this information. He knows that Combeferre most probably didn't tell him about this incident because he wouldn't have wanted him to get angry. The thing is, he would have been right – Enjolras would have given the three of them the silent treatment for a drunk joke – and that makes him feel pretty uncomfortable about himself.

“Were you always discussing my looks during the meetings?”, he asks. Now that he's already paying attention to it, he notices how disapproving he sounds.

“We stopped when we knew you well enough to realise it'd make you uncomfortable”, Grantaire answers matter-of-factly.

It would have, Enjolras thinks, but he wouldn't have sorted it out and gotten furious instead.

“Well, good”, he says.

Grantaire is looking at him, eyebrows raised, half mocking, half serious, and Enjolras has never known how to deal with that. “Do you want me to apologize?”

“No!”, Enjolras snaps, and then, “No. I wasn't implying that at all. It's just...all getting out the wrong way.”

“Yeah, we do have a history of that.”

They fall silent, and Enjolras turns his head to Grantaire, leaning against the backrest. At first, he only looks at the two circular birthmarks on Grantaire's left cheekbone, still too caught up in their conversation, but then their eyes meet, and he's feeling calmer. He wonders when squabbling with Grantaire stopped being a rush of adrenaline and left him with this dull, miserable feeling instead. It's been a few years, at least, and they rarely have those fights anymore, but from time to time one of them will still snap. They take hours or minutes now, though, until they apologize and make up, instead of days, weeks, or even months.

“We'll keep getting better”, Enjolras says. It sounds vague, waiting for affirmation, and Grantaire takes a few moments before he nods tentatively. They both take a sip from their mugs. Like always, they're bumping their elbows because Grantaire is right-handed while Enjolras is left-handed and they manage to sit down the wrong way round every time. It's only then that Enjolras notices Floréal has left. It's no wonder, considering the fact that she has to take care of the other customers and that the two of them have also gone over to completely ignoring her during the last few minutes. (Enjolras is not blushing again at this thought, he's _not_.)

“You should come visit my class some time”, Grantaire suggests as if they've never been interrupted, “the kids would love you.”

“They wouldn't”, Enjolras says matter-of-factly, “Children and I have come to the mutual understanding that we're not compatible.”

“Remember how Gavroche would follow you around, sneaking around school in the vague hope to catch you, and like, messaging you on ICQ 24/7?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Okay, so one kid once liked me because I, too, thought it was unnecessary of his sister to pine after Marius for so long.”

“Sure”, Grantaire mutters. “So are you coming? I told them about you and they thought you were pretty interesting.”

Enjolras wants to ask what he said about him. Enjolras doesn't want to know what he said about him.

Apparently, Grantaire takes his hesitation as a no, because he's quick to add, “You don't have to. Just, you know, take your time. You can take all the time you want.”

 

Courfeyrac isn't there when Enjolras comes home. He thinkshe remembers that he wanted to see a play with Jehan this evening. Something by Dumas, maybe? Grantaire would know. Marius (the cat) has apparently been waiting for someone to feed him. At least, he comes out of his hideaway in Courf's room almost immediately to prowl about Enjolras's legs with a somewhat demanding attitude. Seeing how he ignores Enjolras most of the time, he must be rather hungry.

“Stick to your principles, Marius”, Enjolras mutters as he kicks off his shoes and marches over to the fridge, cat in his trail and meowing heartbreakingly. Enjolras grabs a pack of cat food and Marius the cat's bowl, and, as he nearly stumbles over his tail, squats down to shoot him a disapproving look.

Marius the cat makes a sound that cannot really be described as pleading. It rather sounds like _hurry up, asshole._

The _nerve_.

Enjolras looks him dead in the eye and meows back.

They stare at each other for what seems like minutes. Then, he has no idea how it happens, Marius (the cat) tentatively rubs his head at Enjolras's hand and Enjolras very, very carefully ruffles his fur.

 

Later, when the cat has gone back into hiding and Enjolras is sprawled out on the sofa once more, this time with his textbooks, his thoughts keep trailing back to the Musain and Grantaire saying he could take all the time he wants. Although he tries to shove it away, he can't seem to get rid of an uneasy feeling. It's because when you give someone time, he thinks, reading the same paragraph for the fourth time, it means you have a destination in mind.

And that's a frightening thought.

 

> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _r_ _ehearsal time,_ _b_ _aker & __b_ _aker's_ _w_ _ife!!_ _i_ _wish_

> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _more than anything_

> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _(your cue!!)_ _more than the moon_

> **[to Courfeyrac:]** _I wish?_

> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _more than life_

> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _more than riches_

> **[to Courfeyrac:]** _M_ _ore than anything?_

> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _I WISH WE HAD A CHILD!!!_

> **[to Courfeyrac:]** _I want a_ _child!_

> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _i_ _love you,_ _e_ _njolras_ _ <3 _

 

* * *

 

The next time they meet, it's Friday evening, and they're at _Le roi de couscous_ on a not-a-date, and Enjolras really wants to bring up where Grantaire, you know, thinks they're going, but as soon as he spots him standing under the familiar neon-lit sign, he suddenly feels at ease and he can't bring himself to ask immediately.

“Good evening”, says Grantaire, already wearing his most festive shit-eating grin, “are you ready to dump some _royal tea_ tonight?”

Enjolras tries to glare, he really does, but a small giggle escapes him nevertheless. He tries to cover it up by clearing his throat and suggesting they already go inside, but Grantaire is beaming at him like it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard, making Enjolras blush once again. They both have to duck their heads under the low door frame – Enjolras has lost track on how often he has bumped his head at the exact same spot ever since he's met Bahorel during first semester – and stumbling down three steps, they enter the restaurant. It's a cozy little place, always crammed, but never hectic. With its red and golden plush furniture and the booths decorated with fairy lights, it always reminds Enjolras a bit of the Musain's main room. Bahorel is in the kitchen that night – he still steps in as often as his schedule will allow it to take pressure off his parents – but he takes a few minutes to chat with them about the latest _Orphan Black_ episode, until Cosette, who's working shifts here to contribute to the funding of her bachelor of hotel management, ushers him back to the stove and sees them to an empty table. It's in a quiet booth, with a window looking out on the backyard. As always, Enjolras sinks so deep into the cushions that his knees nearly touch the tabletop.

“So, how are your term papers going?”, Grantaire asks mischievously as soon as Cosette has handed them their menus.

Enjolras only groans in place of an answer. “Tell me about that book you mentioned instead.”

“It's three, actually”, Grantaire says, and of course it is, Grantaire never seems to be reading less than three books at the same time. Usually, it's a historical novel, a thriller, and a philosophical essay of some sort – although it's not always clear if he's honestly interested in the latter, or only liking it “ironically”, which is a concept Enjolras still struggles to understand. What is fascinating about this habit is that Grantaire has set himself to finding obscure connections between the texts no matter their topic, which is why his copies are full of remarks and comparisons written in pencil. (He also doodles mustaches and sarcastic speech bubbles on the covers, but every time one of Enjolras's paperbacks with their cracked spines falls into his hands, he frowns accusingly and tries to smooth the edges. Enjolras has noticed that he has started to treat his books more carefully during the last weeks, because Grantaire is so _gentle_ with his own.)

When Cosette arrives at their table again to take their orders, Grantaire is just finishing an elaborate, far-fetched comparison of _The_ _N_ _ame of the_ _R_ _ose_ and _Ultraviolet._ With a clench in his chest, Enjolras remembers that there was a certain topic he wanted to address this evening, and he makes a deal with himself that he'll finally get to it as soon as Cosette's out of earshot. They immediately launch into another discussion about whether crêpes or galettes are better, though, and even he realises that this is not the perfect opportunity to talk about feelings or intentions. He can't just blurt out something like that right after Grantaire has unrolled how there are much more possible toppings for galettes, he _can't_ , so he defers it once more and just states, “But.”

“But what?”

“But _less sugar_ ”, Enjolras says. It's a knockout argument.

Grantaire grins, but he's wearing that look again. “You're adorable”, he says.

That's his cue, Enjolras thinks. No more delaying. _Getting things done_.

“About that –”

His phone rings.

By now, he's using one of the default ring tones again and the sound is shrill over the hushed talking and soft music playing in the background, so he quickly reaches into his jeans pockets to reject the call.

 _É_ _PONINE THÉNARDIER_ , his screen is blinking. Enjolras stares at it, confused, then looks up to Grantaire, still confused, before answering hurriedly.

“Hello?”

“'Jolras, is 'Ferre with you?”, Éponine says without greeting.

“Isn't he at the hospital tonight?”, he asks back, and she immediately starts cursing so loudly that Enjolras flinches. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck. I forgot that. _Fuck!_ ”

“What's wrong?” Grantaire hasn't stopped watching him and his expression is turning worried. Enjolras tries to indicate him to hold on.

“Gav's not come home from 'Zelma's yet, 'Parnasse was s'pposed to bring him home, but none of them are picking up”, Éponine says. (She has a habit to shorten everyone's name by at least one syllable. She also thinks it's ridiculous that they call each other by their last names just because Courfeyrac and Enjolras started it when they were kids and made it perfectly clear she would break the nose of anyone who tried to call her or Gavroche “Thénardier” the first time she came to a meeting.)

“So you think he's still with Montparnasse?”, Enjolras asks, just to be clear.

“Yeah. I'm about to drive to 'Zelma's to check on them, but I need someone to try and track Gav down”, she says. “Pretty sure he coaxed 'Parnasse into taking him with him wherever he's headed. So. Of course he won't pick up when I'm calling, he'll just pretend he didn't know I wanted him to come home, the little shit.”

There's some rummaging in the background, then the sound of a door being slammed. “I'm heading to the station”, Éponine says. It sounds like she's about to hang up.

“Wait, I'll call him”, Enjolras says quickly. “I'll try to track him down, okay?”

Éponine huffs. “Just give me a ring in case he answers, then I'll come and pick him up. Thanks.”

“What did you just agree to?”, Grantaire asks cautiously.

“Gavroche's disappeared into the nightlife with Montparnasse, as I gathered”, Enjolras explains, squinting at the screen of his phone, then giving up and pulling his reading glasses out of his pocket. “So I'll see if he picks up for me.”

“Put him on speaker”, Grantaire says, leaning forward.

Gavroche picks up after the second ring. “Hey chief, what's up?”

He sounds a bit hoarse, and a bit scared, which is unusual, and some sort of music is blaring in the background.

“Hi, Gavroche.” Enjolras clears his throat. “I was just wondering where you might be...hanging around.”

By the way Grantaire hides his face in his woolen scarf, Enjolras can tell he is probably sounding like on of those sitcom dads forcefully trying to use teenage slang. By the way Gavroche sighs, Enjolras can also tell that he's not nearly sounding as unsuspicious as he was aiming for.

“Ép called you, right?”, he says gloomily. “Just tell her I'm okay.”

“Wait!”, Enjolras says. What is it with these Thénardier kids that they just keep hanging up without warning? “Are you with Montparnasse?”

“I was. He disappeared, though, maybe twenty minutes ago?” This might explain the scared tone in his voice, Enjolras thinks, and by the way Grantaire furrows his brow, they're probably of the same mind here. “I convinced him to take me with him”, Gavroche suddenly blurts out. “I just, Éponine never lets me stay out late, I just wanted –”

“It's okay. I think that's understandable. Probably”, Enjolras says when he doesn't elaborate.

Gavroche snorts. Enjolras raises his eyebrows at Grantaire, who shrugs and makes a gesture like, _can you blame him_.

“Well, okay. So, as a matter of fact, _yes_ , Éponine called me. She might be a bit worried, I think? But if you could tell us where you are, we could come and pick you up, and I promise I won't be wasting any words about where we found you.”

“Who's we?”

“Grantaire and I.”

Gavroche seems to consider this. Enjolras waits patiently while he makes up his mind, exchanging a long look with Grantaire who's mouthing _this is some shitty music_ now, and trying very hard not to think about why _Grantaire and I_ has such a nice ring to it.

“I want to talk to Grantaire”, Gavroche finally agrees. He sounds like someone naming his one phone call after being arrested. (Enjolras flinches as he remembers out of nothing that one time he was arrested with Combeferre and Courfeyrac after the incident at the _Bastille_ and Bahorel came to pick them up at the station dressed up as a pizza delivery person.)

“Hey buddy”, Grantaire greets him as he's handed the phone, and Gavroche immediately sounds at ease. Enjolras wonders what exactly it is that keeps people on guard when he's talking to them. Even a 16 year-old who's known him for ages.

Gavroche names some establishment that sounds like a bar, or a nightclub, or something similar, including complete turn-by-turn directions from Azelma's apartment. Grantaire is nodding and promises Gavroche they'll be there as soon as possible, so Enjolras concludes he knows the place.

He takes his phone back to tell Gavroche, “Text me when Montparnasse is coming back and just stay at, at –”, he turns to Grantaire, seeking help. “The bar.” - “The bar.”

 

By the time Enjolras has retrieved his bike from the light post where he locked it earlier, Grantaire has made a deal with Bahorel and Cosette to visit them after their shift in order to nuke the food they already ordered while watching _Namu, the Killer Whale_.

“I should've asked you”, Enjolras says, awkwardly fiddling with the bicycle bell, “before I told Gavroche we'd fetch him, right?”

“That kid's part of our group, it goes without saying that anyone of us would ditch a tagine for him”, Grantaire grumbles.

“I should've asked nevertheless.”

“Probably”, Grantaire agrees, giving him a weird look. (If he's honest, Enjolras is only calling it weird because despite having gotten better at reading Grantaire, right now he has no idea what he's thinking.) “So, how are we gonna do this?”

“Going by train would only slow us down if it's as near as you say, so you'll get to sit on the rack, I guess.”

“You sure?”, Grantaire asks. “I'd have to hug you.”

“ _Yes_ , I'm sure”, Enjolras says impatiently. He has done this hundreds of times with Combeferre and it's not as if he doesn't like body contact in general, he just refrains from it as soon as he's entering that gray area where he can't tell what's implied by it.

Grantaire still looks unsure, maybe because his tone was a bit harsh. Enjolras pats the rack and tries to crack an encouraging smile. “Get on, I trust you to keep your hands to yourself.”

Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say, because Grantaire is blushing violently, and, great, now Enjolras _is_ uncomfortable with this.

“Enjolras –”

Suddenly, he feels tired. “Just – let's just go, okay?” After a moment of hesitation, Grantaire hands him his backpack. “Put that on”, he says, “I'll hug the backpack.”

Enjolras wonders how things have managed to get so complicated again.

 

The bike ride is okay, though.

A bit cold, maybe, but that's Enjolras's own fault as he has refused to wear his winter jacket ever since March first. (It's nearly spring now, and it's a matter of principles.) Aside from occasional remarks, they don't talk much. At first, it's too loud on the streets to keep a conversation going through shouts over the shoulder, and then Enjolras gets too pumped out to talk at all.

The directions Grantaire gives him lead them away from the busy boulevards. They pass through a few lit-up lanes, lined with restaurants and cafés and buzzing with laughter and soft music floating out through the patio doors. It's going slightly uphill and Enjolras tries hard to keep the pace, occasionally swerving to avoid a pedestrian. One street is decorated with little tricolor flags and is, for some reason, full of dressed up people whooping as they slowly pace their way up, but the street is cobbled and they ultimately have to give up and walk the bike for a few hundred meters.

After that, the streets become narrower and the streetlights less frequent. The whirring of their bike soon becomes the only sound left aside from an occasional TV blaring through an open window. “Sure this is the right direction?”, Enjolras pants out as they're stopping at a crossroad.

“Yes”, says Grantaire. “I could take over, you know?”

Enjolras tries not to feel too relieved about the fact that he's back to sounding asshole-ish. Instead of answering, he just starts pedaling again, and Grantaire has to hold on to his backpack for dear life, because now they're racing downhill. Enjolras puts on the brakes a lot less than he'd normally do, resulting in his heart beating even faster when they've reached the end of the street and Grantaire finally yells “Stop!”.

“Classy”, Enjolras comments as they both get off the bike, careful not to bump into each other. His voice is still shaking from the exhaustion, and so are his legs, but he's concentrating on not letting it show. They're standing in front of a shabby, half-timbered building which Enjolras probably wouldn't even have noticed in the dark street if it weren't for the bright pink lamp post next to the entrance. Someone must have sprayed even shriller purple grapes on it, but the graffiti is already worn out, and the blank spaces are filled with scrawled letters, names and dates. _2_ _4_ _._ _6_ _._ _2001_ _. Juliette_ _+_ _Marianne. JJ is the biggest asshole of Paris._

“May I present to you: the Corinthe”, Grantaire says with a grand gesture. He's looking a bit stiff, but it's hard to tell with a single flickering street light as their only light source. “It looked better the last time I was here, though”, he adds.

“When was that?”

Grantaire is twisting his beanie in his hands once again. “Ages ago”, he says. “Mme H. was still working shifts when Jolllly, Bossuet and I stayed out late here the last time I remember. It was already going down the tubes then. Good for her she managed to get out in time.”

Fumbling with his keys, Enjolras frowns. This must have been while they were still going to school. Actually, it's hard to imagine Mme. Houcheloup didn't always let student activists lodge in the backroom of her café, supplying them with free cake. “I didn't know that.”

“Well, she makes a big deal to cover up she ever worked here, the food's horrible”, Grantaire shrugs. Seeing that Enjolras has managed to lock his bike, he wanders over to the entrance and holds the door open for him. Faint music is drifting out on the street from the dark corridor behind. “After you.”

“What's wrong?”, Enjolras asks as Grantaire keeps his gaze fixed on him.

Grantaire is blushing again and immediately, so is Enjolras. “You're still wearing those reading glasses of yours.”

Enjolras shoves them into his pocket. He will _not_ start blushing every time someone else does. He is _not_ magically turning into Marius.

As soon as he has passed through the corridor and enters the Corinthe, however, everything else is forgotten. It's way bigger than it looked from outside, but he doesn't even pay attention to that, because the music is blaring deafeningly loud and metallic, and there are some sort of rapidly flickering lights installed. They make the interior seem surreal, like a stop-motion movie, and immediately cause Enjolras to lose his bearings. He freezes, going blank. His heart is pounding rapidly in his chest. It's like he set off an alarm and now his mind is stuck on repeat, going _too much too much too much_.

“Enjolras?”

He hasn't even realised he has closed his eyes. When he blinks, he recognizes Grantaire, a step away from him. Giving him space. Looking worried. “You alright?”

Enjolras clears his throat. He can handle this. It's not simply convincing himself, he's managed worse situations. Protests. Concerts. Faculty parties.

“Just a second.”

He inhales and exhales slowly for a few times, then puts the hood of his sweatshirt up. It's not _that_ loud after you get used to it and the flickering lights follow a distinct rhythm that's repeating every ten seconds.

“Okay. Let's get going.”

The place is one single square room, dimly lit apart from the party lights, tables scattered along the walls and in the corners, a dance floor that is empty apart from two couples, and a bar opposite to them. There's not much going on, but then again, it's not even eleven in the evening. They spot the halo of Gavroche's light blonde hair almost immediately. (He wanted to dye it black last year, but he refrained from it after Courfeyrac showed him a rare picture of Enjolras with black hair at age 14.) As they make their way over to the bar, Gavroche doesn't even look up from his phone, taking sips from a glass next to him. He's looking bored and a little bit lost.

“Hey R, hey chief”, he shouts over the sound of...what kind of music are they even playing here? It reminds Enjolras of a song that topped the charts when he was in 5th grade. Grantaire seems to be getting the same vibe, seeing how he's swaying his hips in the rhythm, mouthing the lyrics along with the singer. Enjolras tries to think of a word to describe how it looks, but _funny_ doesn't convey the notion that he feels the sudden urge to ruffle Grantaire's hair.

_Right._

“– I could've taken the train home”, Gavroche says as Enjolras re-enters the conversation.

“No, you couldn't have”, he objects sternly, “because Éponine would have ripped our heads off.”

“And this is why –”, Grantaire takes the glass out of Gavroche's hand and sniffs at it before shoving it out of his reach, “we'll take a taxi right to your home and safely deliver you to your sister, young culprit. Enjolras, where are the handcuffs?”

“Did I hear handcuffs?”, a soft voice murmurs next to Enjolras and he jumps.

“Fuck off, Montparnasse”, says Grantaire, and, Jesus Christ, sneaking up to people in order to startle them has been this guy's hobby ever since they were teenagers, and it's still working.

Enjolras glares at him angrily, trying to convey all his disapproval through a single glance. He wouldn't bother if Montparnasse had only rudely barged into his not-a-date, but planting Gavroche in a shitty nightclub on his own, leaving him _scared_ , is simply unjustifiable. Gavroche doesn't get scared, Gavroche is intrepid and independent, and what the hell did Montparnasse tell him to get him to wait here alone for him to come back? He's still a kid, after all, and he seems way too okay with the fact that his sister's boyfriend simply was too selfish to bring him home before attending whatever sketchy business he's up to and too much of a coward to text Éponine about it, and okay, Enjolras feels his neck heating in what Jehan calls _the colour of righteous fury._

“I fucking hope you heard the part about Éponine ripping someone's head off, too”, he hears himself snarl. “I can't say I'd be surprised or sad if I saw your severed, pathetic head dangling from the Arc de Triomphe tomorrow and I guarantee that it will be wearing a sorry look on it.”

Enjolras would like to say Montparnasse got a bit pale under his pastel baseball cap, but the truth is, there's no way to tell in the neon light installed over the bar. Plus, he's laughing, so it's probably only wishful thinking. Grantaire, on the other hand, is looking at him like he's about to say, “Dear gods.” He doesn't, though. “How about we get you in that taxi I mentioned?”, he says, bumping his fist in Gavroche's shoulder, “and forget about the handcuffs? Provided that you're willing to end your bar-hopping voluntarily.”

“Yeah, no bar fights today, chief”, says Gavroche, getting up, and Enjolras might be the second youngest in this room, but when exactly did Gavroche start mocking him? Also, he only got in a bar fight like _twice_.

Montparnasse lifts his hat, thanking them politely for their help and seeing them to the door as if they had come to visit at his house. To make the absurdity of the scene complete, this is accompanied by a tinny rendition of Kylie Minogue's “Can't Get You Out Of My Head”.

“You know”, Grantaire tells Gavroche when they get out of the Corinthe, “next time you want your night out to get _criminal_ , just call Courfeyrac.”

 

A single taxi drive back to Azelma's costs more than enough, but Éponine sounded so worried on the phone that neither of them thinks it's a good idea to take an hour-long walk and train ride to hand Gavroche over to her. By cab, it's a matter of twenty minutes. First, they maneuver through the narrow lanes ambitiously, then at high-speed through the inner city's roundabouts, and Enjolras checks his seat-belt more than once.

Gavroche has regained his talkativeness and is discussing some technical details about cameras with Grantaire. Their conversation is underlined by their taxi driver humming enthusiastically to a song playing on Chante France about a car park, maybe? Enjolras is too worn out to pay attention to the lyrics. He zones out, thinking about the blog entry he wants to finish later, and the e-mails he'll need to write in order to catch up with their associated organisations, and how he definitely needs to talk to Feuilly, and Combeferre.

Combeferre.

“Gavroche”, he says, cracking his eyes open, “how do you feel about Combeferre living with you and Éponine?”

It's only a few seconds after the words have tumbled out that he realises he probably interrupted their conversation mid-sentence. Gavroche is gazing at him almost accusingly, and Grantaire…Grantaire is wearing this unsettling look again, like Enjolras is some sort of kitten that just fell off a bookshelf because he didn't calculate the distance for a jump correctly. (He's a bit embarrassed that this is the first comparison he came up with, but Joly has a habit to include videos of cute cats to their meetings, okay? It's not like Enjolras watches them in his free time. _Not at all_.)

“It's...okay, I guess?”, Gavroche says cautiously.

“You don't mind?”, Enjolras presses.

“It's...alright?”

“Okay. That's great.”

The taxi comes to a halt and Gavroche jumps out of the car as fast as he can. Enjolras pays, then turns to Grantaire, who is smiling for some reason. He has the urge to say something, already parting his lips, but nothing comes to his mind, so he just glares for a few seconds before he hurries to get out as well. Éponine is already waiting on the pavement, Azelma nowhere in sight. During their walk to the nearest train station, she doesn't talk much and wears a hard line around her mouth, but after a few minutes of quiet walking, she puts her arm around her brother's shoulders. Like every time he sees the two of them together, Enjolras is struck by how Gavroche is nearly as tall as her now.

Azelma and Montparnasse live in the 14th arrondissement, probably only for the joke. They get in the Métro system at Montparnasse-Bienvenüe and part ways after the ticket barriers. Enjolras sees Éponine tug her brother closer as they walk past a group of drunk students before they turn around a corner and are gone. He doesn't like going by train when it's late at all. Either the stations are deserted or filled with loud, aggressive noises. As they're walking down the tiled stairway to their platform, someone catcalls them, and Enjolras flips them off over his shoulder, his mood plummeting.

He's staring absentmindedly at a huge poster commercial for a movie about a chambermaid across the tracks, trying to schedule the act of retrieving his bike from the Corinthe in his plans for tomorrow, when he suddenly hears Grantaire chuckle.

“What's so funny?”, he asks with furrowed brows.

Grantaire is smiling at him again. “ _Your severed, pathetic head will dangle from the Arc de Triomphe?_ To be honest, I'd almost forgotten that you could be that terrifying.”

For the second time this evening, Enjolras finds himself blushing. This time, it's out of embarrassment, though. “I overreacted”, he says, “and I'm not proud of it. Though being snarky has been reported to be helpful in certain situations.”

Grantaire sighs a bit. “Such as, dismantling the patriarchy?”

The noise of the arriving train cuts off the conversation, but after they've gotten on and squeezed their way to a grab pole, Grantaire muses: “'Parnasse's hat was a bit _base-ic_ , though. Not that I'm making fun of anyone's choice of clothes”, he adds quickly, grinning mischievously. Enjolras only groans.

“So”, Grantaire says, “are you feeling alright?”

Enjolras has a sense where this is going, but he raises his eyebrows nevertheless (both, he's too tired to try for only one right now).

“The sensory overload?”

“Ah yes, that one”, Enjolras mumbles. He thinks about brushing the topic off, but somehow he doesn't mind telling Grantaire about it, at least not right now. “It happens from time to time”, he explains as quietly as possible over the rattling of the train, amplified by the open windows. “But I can handle it at most times. Today wasn't that bad, I just wasn't expecting that place to be triggering.”

“Is there anything that helps reducing it?”, Grantaire asks. “I mean, if you don't mind me trying to help, or if I can help at all, it's fine either way, I was just wondering...” He trails off.

“Ferre and I worked out a list some years ago. I could give it to you some time”, Enjolras says without thinking about it. Then he hesitates. It might be true that the idea is…calming, but if you look at the situation from a rational point of view, there's simply no reason why he should give it to Grantaire alone. He does like Grantaire very much, but there's no special relationship between them right now, nothing that calls for extra treatment. They're not dating. They're _not-dating_.

He's flying blind, to put it short. He doesn't know where Grantaire wants this to go, only that he seems to have some destination in mind and is giving him time. Giving him space. Asking him out only as often as Enjolras is comfortable with, not demanding anything. The thing is, Enjolras is not a person to hold back information or to postpone an important conversation. If he were only sure how he feels about Grantaire, he would go ahead and tell him outright that he's asexual and let Grantaire make up his mind about it. And, yes, there _have_ been feelings, moments, thoughts he couldn't pin down, for, he's not sure, years probably. It's just that he has never given them much further thought. It's just that he's not even sure if he is able to be romantically interested in someone. It's just that he doesn't know how he's supposed to classify his feelings when he literally has no reference. It's just that he's afraid to ruin this…thing they have now by forcefully trying to put a label on it.

Grantaire is looking at him expectantly and Enjolras realises that he probably missed a part of their conversation while rolling over this train of thoughts once again. “Sorry?”

“I said, you're not very subtle when it comes to feelings.”

The sensation of heat crawling up his cheeks might have become familiar to Enjolras over the course of this evening, but this time, he's probably glowing. “Excuse me?”

“The way you asked Gavroche about Combeferre?”, Grantaire supplies. He seems to be avoiding Enjolras's eyes now and takes off his beanie again in an almost nervous gesture.

“Oh”, Enjolras says. He clears his throat. “Well, now I can tell Ferre he doesn't need to worry, so it paid off.”

When his station is announced, he can't decide whether he's relieved or disappointed to get off the train.

 

“Courfeyrac?”, Enjolras calls into the dark hallway of their apartment as soon as he has entered. A second later, the bathroom door flows open with a bang, and Courfeyrac slides out on the parquet on his socks with a dramatic gesture and a stack of paper in his hands, before collecting himself and bowing to Enjolras. “The very one.” He's also wearing a bright yellow three-piece suit, heart-shaped sunglasses and a fake mustache, and it's probably a sign of how tired Enjolras is that he questions nothing about this.

“Can you make a list of symptoms for romantic attraction?”

 

> **[** **from Combeferre:** **]** _somehow every time i talk to gavroche i feel REALLY REALLY old_
> 
> **[from Combeferre:]** _ever wish we were 16 again?_
> 
> **[** **to Combeferre:** **]** _If that thought ever crossed my mind I'd cure myself by remembering that 16 was when Courfeyrac went through his High School Musical phase._
> 
> **[** **from Combeferre:** **]** _..._
> 
> **[** **from Combeferre:** **]** _right_
> 
> **[** **to Combeferre:** **]** _:D_

 

* * *

 

The buzzing of the hand mixer is a very satisfying noise. It stirs things up. It dismantles the ingredients to create something better and greater than before. Also, it's loud and aggressive and hard to control and _a great metaphor_ , okay?

“Honey, I think the doorbell just rang”, his grandma tells him.

“Courf, the doorbell rang”, Enjolras repeats distractedly, pouring a reasonable amount of chopped chocolate into the dough. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Courfeyrac jump over the couch in an elegant move. He then proceeds to waltz out of the kitchen/living room while striking up “I wish to go to the festival!” once more, but that's no surprise, he has been doing this nonstop ever since he got the message that his latest short movie would be featured at a local film festival in Orsay. Considering the fact that they're going today, it's natural he's excited. The real mystery is how he can hit notes that high.

Enjolras doesn't pay much attention to the voices in the hallway, probably it's just a delivery for Courfeyrac anyway, considering how the fake mustache has lately been joined by a bunny-patterned bath robe and a stack of Playbills. He's inspecting the dough instead. Even though Enjolras would never admit it loudly, it might be possible that a little bit too much chocolate went in it. At least, it turns out to be difficult to spot the dough within the mass of chocolate.

Enjolras glares at the mixing bowl in the vague hope that it might disintegrate.

“You can say hello, but I'd rather suggest we stay in my room, he's currently baking.” Courfeyrac's voice has become louder again, and Enjolras looks up, only to see him standing in the door frame together with...

“Oh”, Enjolras says. He can't help but stare a little bit, because Grantaire has an adorably incredulous look on his face, and a radiant smile is spreading slowly on his face as he takes in the sight he's offered, and Enjolras has never noticed he has _dimples_. Then he follows Grantaire's look and immediately feels the familiar blush creeping up his neck. To say the room is a mess would be an indefensible understatement: there is flour everywhere, on the table, on the floor, on his apron, and at least seven different used bowls are scattered on the counter, and as he self-conciously reaches for his hair, chopped chocolate is raining on the tiles. Also, his laptop is propped up on the table in clear sight, and his grandma is waving jovially at Grantaire via Skype.

“R has his sister's car for tonight”, Courfeyrac explains, “and he thought he'd drop by a bit earlier to pick us up.”

“I can see that”, Enjolras says. He turns away abruptly to yank open the next cupboard and pull out a lamb-shaped cake mould, as apparently he can't talk right now. He also tries not to be aware of Grantaire, Courfeyrac and his grandma watching him as he spreads butter on the mould.

“He's an angry baker”, Courfeyrac says apologetically, somewhere out in the hallway again.

“Okay”, Grantaire says, and Enjolras is immediately distracted again, because _what is it with Grantaire that he simply accepts every_ _one of Enjolras's weird habits_ _without even questioning_. “Is this about the...?”

Before he knows what he's doing, Enjolras has dropped the butter pack on the counter again and is marching out of the door. “Yes, _damn right_ , this is about two speakers turning us down on the same day that I get the notice that the sound system has not been booked properly _and_ that the university group thinks about backing off and I honestly don't know _why everybody tells me to stay calm because this is a catastrophe for our protest -_ ”

He doesn't know where this comes from, but suddenly, Enjolras remembers how it felt like to be an angry crier instead of an angry baker. How he would feel his eyes burn, thinking _not again_ , how he would choke on his own words and people would look at him with pity instead of listening. How he got so furious one time in his 8th grade commerce class that he started crying halfway through a rant and his classmates would never let go off this incident. How his grandma initiated the baking sessions whenever Enjolras got frustrated about the world in general and things not working out the way he planned it more specifically.

Enjolras sighs.

“I'm sorry, I'll just...I'll finish the cake”, he says. As he closes the kitchen/living room door behind him, he nearly clamps Marius (the cat), who shoots him a ferocious look. Apparently, they're on bad terms again.

“So, this is Grantaire?”, his grandma says conversationally after he has finally put the stupid cake into the oven and sits down in front of his laptop again.

He nods jerkily.

“But, Enjolras, why didn't you say hello to him?”

“I didn't?”

His grandma smiles knowingly while pouring herself another cup of hot chocolate. (Enjolras doesn't know what it is exactly that she knows, though.) “I may not have the best angle from the kitchen table”, she says, “and you know I never wear my glasses, but from what I gathered, you said 'oh', then stared at him for about ten seconds, then proceeded to ignore him, then marched out to tell him why you're upset, and finally slammed the kitchen door in his face.”

Enjolras contemplates this and finds that she is probably right. “I didn't notice”, he says, a little bit lost.

“You're sounding lost, honey”, his grandma says, because she's his grandma and also might be psychic.

“I am”, Enjolras blurts out, “and Courfeyrac tried to explain crushes to me, but I honestly don't know how to tell –”, he's tapping rapidly on the touch-pad and opening an excel sheet, “so I made a spreadsheet with all the possible signs he mentioned and filed them in three categories and took notes over the course of a week, but I still can't tell. For all I know, romantic attraction could be something completely different and this, this is just something else that I can't identify.”

“Is Grantaire putting you under any kind of pressure?”

“No”, Enjolras mumbles, “no, I think he's trying really hard not to.”

“Then maybe you should try not to put too much pressure on yourself.”

 

When Enjolras has managed to cut three approximately equal pieces from the still steaming cake and places the plates on the table, Grantaire is inspecting the kitchen clock that has its place in the middle of Courfeyrac's cacti plantation on the counter. It is shaped like a tiny good-natured chef, if you leave aside its neon yellow top hat that reads _RAN_ _T-O-METER_.

“Please tell me this is not what it looks like”, says Grantaire.

“It is”, Enjolras confirms, taking the clock out of his hands and shoving him on a chair. “It's a relict from when Courf, Ferre and I used to live together during first semester, you know, before Courf's parents decided to let the apartment to someone who could actually pay and Ferre and I moved to the student hostel. After one month, Ferre decided that no one would be allowed to rant about the same topic more than three minutes straight. He took that new rule very seriously, we even had to pay fines if we exceeded.”

“It doesn't seem like a stretch to me that you couldn't pay your share anymore after that, Enjolras.”

Grantaire is hit by a piece of half-melted chocolate in return.

“How shocking”, he says as he peels it off his cheek where it got stuck, “this coming from the man who has lectured us all countless times about how violence should by principle never be more than an ultima ratio, and now I should find myself attacked just because of a fairly logical assumption? Your standard is dropping, Enjolras, are you getting old?”

Enjolras glares at him across the table. “I never exceeded the three minute limit”, he explains gravely. “We had agreed on it, so _naturally_ I prepared my rants in order order to hit the mark.”

“Yeah, naturally, you would do that”, Grantaire mumbles, giving him that undefinable look once again. “The cake is spot on, by the way. A _tiny_ bit too much chocolate, _maybe_.”

“There is no such thing as too much chocolate”, Enjolras says solemnly and out of principle, “but I assume that the longstanding consumption of black coffee has killed off your taste buds.”

Grantaire gazes at him incredulously. “I've seen you running completely on caffeine for three years during your term paper seasons, and you seriously have the nerve to depict me as some sort of coffee junkie?”

“The fact that I use coffee doesn't mean I don't realise that it tastes utterly disgusting.”

“Meaning I would've had to order white coffee with extra cream and chocolate sprinkles if we had gone on that…fuck, never mind”, Grantaire interrupts himself before Enjolras can assess where this is going. “I probably shouldn't have mentioned that, so, do you want to talk about who fucked up what with the sound system? No, actually, never mind again, sorry I fucked up this conversation, it wasn't on purpose. Fuck.”

Enjolras furrows his brow, because he's not entirely sure if he's getting this right, but he might be, so without thinking much about it, he reaches across the table and places his hand on Grantaire's arm. “Hey”, he says, “I can handle, erm. _Conversations_. You shouldn't feel like you need to, to avoid topics. And”, he adds, sighing, “I should apologize for snapping about the speakers earlier, I didn't mean it to sound like I was angry at you and it probably came out a bit scary.”

“Scary I can handle”, Grantaire says, “I've seen you bite into ice cream more than once, which is, hands down, the most horrifying thing you do, and if I were you, I'd think about including this in your next important speech because it'd be all over the papers and would probably scare the whole of France into following your lead, so I've become immune to that, but –”

Of course, Courfeyrac chooses this exact moment to blast the door open, burst into the room with nothing on but a wet towel and, for some reason, sunglasses, and to bump his toe in the door frame. So instead of an answer from Grantaire, Enjolras gets a dramatic moan from Courfeyrac, spiced with a heartfelt _“_ _Raios me partam!”_ and a hasty capture of the towel that's sliding dangerously low. “So, where's the anger management chocolate bomb?”, he asks, snatching his plate, before he stops mid-move to stare at both of them, slowly taking off the sunglasses. _“Oh não, não_ _”_ , he winces, _“N_ _ão acredito nisto, isto é demais para mim._ Forget that I was ever here, please, go on, talk, _talk_!”

Enjolras realises that both Courfeyrac and Grantaire are staring at his hand that's still on Grantaire's elbow. (Why is it on his elbow? Enjolras didn't even aim for it.) He slowly retrieves his hand and reaches for his fork again.

“Okay, have fun, bye”, Courfeyrac says hastily, backing out of the door. In the hallway, they can here him singing _I'm already gone_ in his best Kelly Clarkson voice.

Enjolras and Grantaire look at each other.

“Maybe”, Enjolras says, and he can totally do that, he can, “it would be appropriate if I tried to. Explain myself. So that there are no misunderstandings and you don't think I'm up to something which I'm, I'm not.”

He's watching Grantaire's face carefully, hoping to catch some sign of understanding or encouragement to go on, but instead Grantaire seems to deflate a little bit. Enjolras thinks he can see him adjusting his expression to something neutral, like he's steeling himself. But for what? For Enjolras explaining how he thinks he might have romantic feelings for him and why he doesn't go on dates? He opens his mouth, then closes it again, because if he understood any of whatever has been going on between them correctly, then Grantaire shouldn't look like he's expecting bad news, right?

“Look, you don't have to do this”, Grantaire says as it's clear he's not going on, “let's just not have this talk right now. We've got to get going in fifteen minutes and I wanted to ask you a favour.”

Enjolras contemplates this. “Is that why you came early?”, he finally asks.

“Yes, Sherlock.” Grantaire is rummaging in the backpack he threw on the floor earlier to produce a stapled stack of paper, which he shoves over the table.

“What's that?”, Enjolras asks.

“Oh, but you were just on a roll, Sherlock.”

Enjolras sticks his tongue out at him before he inspects the first page. “It's a short story.”

“Incredible!”, Grantaire gasps.

“By you.”

“Did you honestly deduce this from the fact that my name's written on it? You're, I don't have any words for this, please, I need your autograph –”

“You always claim you don't write.”

“You also claim to be a responsible adult, and yet I hear from Jolllly that Combeferre has to remind you to change your bedsheets”, Grantaire says, and Enjolras glares at him again. “Besides, you should have gathered at some point in the last six years that I bullshit all day long.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “You only bullshit when you're nervous or you want to distract from what you said before.”

“Glad to find out it works so well”, Grantaire mumbles, snatching the stack of paper back from Enjolras. “So anyways, I wanted to ask you to beta-read this, it's not too long, about 6000 words, and I need someone with an unbiased opinion who never backs off from criticism and who follows the strict policy of short, meaningful sentences, since it turns out that now that I don't have the ambition to frustrate my teachers anymore, I find it amusing to pack as much information into one sentence as possible.”

“Seems like we swapped roles”, Enjolras says. “Back in school, I used to get points deducted for rambling in my exams.”

“I recall you struggling in your first semester”, Grantaire grins, picking his fork up again from his plate and spinning it between two fingers. Enjolras follows them with his eyes, tracing the blur of ball-pen blue down to his wrists where the writing stops. “The notes on your hands”, he says, “where they for this?”

“Nah, they're random”, Grantaire says, stopping to frown at his hands. “Most of them never actually make it into a text, I just get a lot of ideas when I fall asleep and I'm too tired to get my phone or a sheet of paper. So will you read it?”

“I can, but are you sure you want me to? It feels like a big deal.”

“It isn't”, Grantaire says offhandedly, only to interrupt himself again. “It _is_ , but I'm sure, as long as you pledge to call me the second you finish.”

“Tomorrow after lunch”, Enjolras promises, putting out his hand, but instead of handing him the story, Grantaire shakes it. “Deal.”

 

 _Accelerated heartbeat_ and _getting distracted_ are once again gaining points for the spreadsheet column of frequent symptoms. Maybe Enjolras should add another category called “peculiar Enjolras reactions” containing _not being entirely able to differentiate between the urge to be as near to Grantaire as possible or to escape to the opposite site of the room and ignore him_.

It feels nice, he thinks now that he's hiding behind a giant potted plant in the cinema lobby, that Grantaire doesn't seem to expect him to always be on guard and active. It's calming and a bit unsettling at the same time, too, that he's not scared off by Enjolras being socially awkward, complicated, or even floured. It's like the way it is with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, only … different. Grantaire makes him feel grounded, like it's not so bad after all if things don't go the way he wants them to. Thoughts like these, however, make it only even more disconcerting how Grantaire reacted to Enjolras's attempt at clearing things up. Enjolras definitely needs to talk to Courfeyrac and Combeferre later and have them explain to him whether something was wrong with his timing. He's _hoping_ that something was wrong with how he brought up the topic because if the alternative is that Grantaire knew exactly what he was going to say and didn't want to hear it, then Enjolras honestly doesn't understand what's going on anymore at all. No, worse. In some undefinable way, this would hurt.

“Ah, there you are!” Feuilly comes over to his hideaway with two bottles of lemonade, smiling broadly. _No unusual reactions when interacting with other friends_ , Enjolras adds to the imaginary spreadsheet. They hug, then Feuilly uncaps the bottles and hands one over. “What are you doing back here?”, he asks, taking a sip.

“Thinking”, Enjolras says confidently. “About. Things.”

“Is everything alright with you?”

“Yes.” Enjolras takes a sip, too, and immediately chokes. “Apart...from the...thinking”, he coughs out as Feuilly slaps him on the back. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Grantaire glancing over to them from where he's kidding around with Bahorel and Cosette, and Enjolras waves awkwardly while tries his best to appear composed again. Grantaire is grinning now, and didn't Enjolras just think about _unsettling_?

“So, how was your day?”, he asks Feuilly in his best attempt to change the topic.

“Exhausting.” Feuilly yawns and stretches his arms until his shoulders creak, involuntarily showing off the tattoos on his upper arms. “Two grave-borders today plus the foundations for the tombstones. But tomorrow, I get to start with this angel statue I told you about and I'm looking forward to that.”

“How's Jehan holding up at the graveyard?”

“They always drop by for a coffee at my workplace when their shift is over. There's been no incident of vandalism ever since the security booth was put up, so there's not much to do, and Jehan seems to write one complete song for _The Byronics_ per night. All in all, I'd say pretty good.”

“They're called _The Byronics_ now?” Enjolras makes a mental note of that. It's kind of hard to keep track of the many name changes of Jehan's underground melancholic indie rock band, or however the genre could be described. They started off as _Cor Merveilleux_ , but Enjolras is sure he also attended concerts of _Sleepers in that quiet Earth_ , and, during some legendary period, _Scènes du vit d'un propre à rien_ . In comparison, _The Byronics_ seems almost conservative.

“It's insane, right?”, Feuilly says. “Are you coming to their gig next Friday? I took my holiday there so that I could be on time. We could go together.”

“Sure”, Enjolras smiles.

“I'll text you.”

“Great.”

Both of them watch their friends taking over the lobby for a while. They're always sure to make an impression whenever they're out, there's just no way a group of thirteen loud twenty-somethings (plus a teenager, in case he doesn't have school) with an affinity for puns and musical performances can blend in easily. Right now, Cosette is dead-lifting Bahorel, cheered on by Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet while Courfeyrac apparently tries to teach Marius how to slow dance under Grantaire's supervision (Jehan looks like they're providing the music, but it's too loud to tell for sure). The only ones looking remotely reasonable are Éponine and Combeferre, but on the other hand, Éponine is shoving a paperback into Combeferre's face right now, so Enjolras concludes that they're having one of their more intense literature discussions. He faintly remembers that time when the two of them marathoned _Game of Thrones_ and he got up at seven, only to find them sleep-deprivedly discussing whether Daenerys or Stannis are more suitable for sitting on the Iron Throne.

(Courfeyrac later called him out on “ruining their date” by questioning whether the throne should be occupied at all, but Enjolras still maintains that Combeferre should have told him if he didn't want him to join their discussion.)

“I wanted to tell you something”, Feuilly breaks the silence between them. “It's very important to me and everyone else has already guessed it, so I wanted to make sure you know.”

Enjolras focuses his full attention on Feuilly, who is smiling broadly at him. “I'll gladly listen.”

“I'm seeing someone”, Feuilly says. “Or, maybe this has the wrong ring to it – I'm in a committed relationship.”

Enjolras isn't proud of it, but he needs a few seconds to remember that Feuilly and his girlfriend broke up almost two years ago. It had been shortly after the Joly-Bossuet-Musichetta relationship had become official, and Enjolras had been the only one who had believed Feuilly when he assured them that public and extremely sappy displays of affection didn't bother him at all. He's still sure of that, though. Feuilly is simply not capable of channeling negative emotions or begrudging his friends their happiness.

He realises that Feuilly is looking at him expectantly and feels his lips curve into a smile, because Feuilly looks incredibly happy, and if anyone deserves to be happy, it's definitely him. “That's great”, Enjolras says, meaning it. “I wish you all the best.”

“Don't you want to know who it is?”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. Feuilly is blushing now, and this is something Enjolras has barely witnessed before, despite the Curse of the Freckled, and is, frankly, unsettling. “Someone I know?”

“Yes. It's Bahorel.”

Enjolras nearly drops his bottle. “But”, he says, trying to come up with a single clue or memory that could have hinted to this. “But, not that I'm not. Happy for you, but. I didn't realise you were even spending time together outside of the ABC?”

“Here's where you come into play.”

Enjolras shouldn't have taken a sip to cover up his confusion, since now he's not only choking again, but he also snorted lemonade through his nose. “What?”, he manages to croak between his coughs.

“Remember how you gifted me nine of your ten coupons for free yoga lessons at his studio because I mentioned I was wound up tightly from work and you didn't let Courfeyrac drag you there more than once?”, Feuilly asks. “As you know, I kept going back, and then we started to spend more time together. We had a lot of dinners at _Le_ _représentant_ _–_ I mean, _Le roi de couscous_ until we sorted out that we were dating a month ago. So, as a matter of fact, you're our matchmaker.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Enjolras knows that he shouldn't feel betrayed by the fact that Feuilly, too, has jumped on the bandwagon of teasing him for _that night_ , and that he should probably also close his mouth. He is spared from coming up with an appropriate reaction, though, by a sudden stroke of a gong and a female voice reminding them over speaker to turn off their phones upon entering the theater. Courfeyrac is waving at them excitedly to come out behind their potted plant cover. As they stroll into the cinema hall, Enjolras is pulled aside by him to get some last information about the movie they're about to see, and he can only turn back to Feuilly to smile at him apologetically and try to indicate to him that he's really, really happy for him.

Only confused about how he couldn't notice.

Are there some secret signs showing outside observers that people are falling in love? Technically, he's aware that he should be able to tell if someone was attracted to him, and it's not like he never has, but do others pay attention to things like these when there's no obvious reason for it? How could two of his friends date for weeks without him having the slightest clue?

It happens that Enjolras ends up sitting next to Grantaire, and while everyone is settling down and the lights are slowly fading, he bends over to his seat and asks, just to be sure: “Did you know Feuilly and Bahorel were dating?”

Grantaire doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he slowly turns his head to face Enjolras and, wow, they're suddenly really close, but oddly enough, it doesn't feel uncomfortable. “Enjolras”, Grantaire says slowly, “Everyone knew.”

The movie starts.

 

> **[to Combeferre and Courfeyrac:]** _Did really everyone know about Feuilly and Bahorel?_
> 
> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _YES_
> 
> **[from Combeferre:]** yes
> 
> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _now switch_ _off_ _your phone look thERE'S MY NAME ON THE SCREEN_

 

* * *

 

They're celebrating afterward. Courfeyrac has chosen a small, comfy restaurant in Orsay close to the cinema, and they're definitely too loud for the ambiance, but the innkeeper doesn't complain. As the hour gets later, everyone is becoming a bit more sentimental than usual, and when the waitress brings a new bottle of wine, Combeferre, arm in arm with Éponine, starts the toasts.

“To Courfeyrac!”, he says loudly, raising his glass, “for his courage to play a gay role when he's actually bisexual!”

“To Courfeyrac!” As always, Enjolras is amazed how drinking just a little bit of wine makes it so much harder to pronounce Courf's name. He knows that he's probably wearing a look of high concentration while at it, but that definitely doesn't give Grantaire the right to laugh at him, so he sticks out his tongue. Weirdly enough, Grantaire is only laughing more, and suddenly, in that wine-fuzzy brain of his, Enjolras finds the word to describe how Grantaire is looking at him: _fondly_.

“And for always bringing us back together!”, Joly slurs. “For getting us to meet regular...regularly”, he concludes proudly, “and for always dragging us on field trips and writing group texts and throwing parties when it's become so hard to meet up since we're out of school, so hard, and this makes me so, _so sad_ , you're great, everyone's so great, really great.” As he trails off, Musichetta and Bossuet exchange a concerned look over his head, apparently have a non-verbal conversation via eyebrows alone, and then Bossuet gently takes away Joly's wineglass and Musichetta drapes her jacket over his shoulders. The fact that he doesn't resist is telling enough: Joly can drink most of them under the table and must have had _a lot_.

“To me”, says Bahorel, looking up from his phone and grinning broadly, “because I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who has just confirmed that he'll line up a new sound system.”

“Don't jump him”, Combeferre comments drily as Enjolras beams at Bahorel, trying to find the words to thank him, but he keeps stumbling over them and everyone is laughing anyway.

“You'd have my blessing”, Feuilly says drily.

Courfeyrac instantly whines, “To Feuilly, for being a beautiful cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure!”, but is shut up by Combeferre throwing a napkin at him, probably because they made a deal a few years ago that Courfeyrac is not allowed to mention anything related to Tumblr in public.

“To Marius and Cosette, because they're the sappiest couple in the vicinity of three kilometers”, Jehan calls over from the opposite end of the table. Immediately, Musichetta and Bossuet plant kisses on each of Joly's cheeks, eliciting a sleepy, yet pleased hum. “No, that's us”, Musichetta says proudly. Éponine pretends to retch, but a second later, she's snuggled up at Combeferre's shoulder, smiling contently.

Surrounded by his friends, Enjolras feels the sudden urge to tell Grantaire how grateful he is for him transferring to their class in 12th grade, or for letting Bossuet drag him to their first meeting, or for the first time they talked after a session and only stopped arguing when Enjolras's grandma called to remind him that he might be eighteen but he still had to get up for school next morning, or for that time when Grantaire sent a 4000 word group e-mail at four in the morning with the subject _Postmodern Nihilism_ _As A Reaction To Right-Wing Politics,_ _As_ _Exhibited In The Doge Meme_ , or for that time Courfeyrac planned their third semester road trip and forced the two of them into one car and they didn't kill each other, or for whatever chain of events led to him being here now, sitting right across from him with this _fond_ smile. But he doesn't know how to express it, so he just smiles back at him, trying to convey as many of those confusing feelings buzzing through his head as possible.

 

“So, did you like it?”, Courfeyrac asks. Despite the fact that it's probably past three in the morning (Enjolras would never admit it, but he can't decipher the display of his watch in the twilight in the kitchen/living room without putting his reading glasses on), he doesn't sound sleepy at all. A little bit exhausted, maybe.

“Do you even have to ask? You literally played a gay undercover agent posing as a med student in a movie that featured a platypus as well as Edith Piaf making an Iron Man reference”, Combeferre says drily. “Also, your character ended up with his guy happily ever after without angst, drama, or love triangles. How could anyone not like that?”

“Completely over the top, but in a great way”, Enjolras agrees, yawning. “I'd say it was good for representation issues, too, but I don't know how many undercover agents are infiltrating the Paris university, so...”

“You have to look at it from an artistic angle! Toss away the externals, look at the core!” Courfeyrac is sprawled out on both Enjolras's and Combeferre's laps (the sofa is pretty crowded like that) and as his head is resting somewhere near Enjolras's armpit, he has a good view on his happy grin. “Once I'm a director, I'm gonna make a shitload of LGBT movies with happy endings! _In any genre ever invented!_ ” He's almost singing the last part and spreading his arms like he's expecting to take off any second.

“It's a great means of activism”, Enjolras says earnestly. Courfeyrac stops his flying lessons to shoot him an investigating look, before adjusting his position (which causes Combeferre to make a pained noise and pull a foot out from behind his back). “So, Enjolras”, he says, “are you sober enough for investigation?”

“I was never drunk”, Enjolras huffs.

“A little bit”, Combeferre says, ready to compromise.

“Kind of tipsy”, Courfeyrac suggests.

“So we noticed”, Combeferre begins, and now he has Enjolras's undivided attention, because it must be something serious if they're using the Collective Parents Pronouns, “that you seemed to be giving Grantaire the eye all evening long.”

“Meaning you smiled at him dreamily for a great deal of time”, Courfeyrac elaborates. “And we were wondering whether there are some new insights in your feelings for him.”

Enjolras furrows his brow. “Did you practice this conversation?”, he asks, using his own diversionary tactics now.

“That's not the point we're discussing here”, says Combeferre. Enjolras is wondering whether it's his tone or the glasses that make him look a lot like M. Combeferre senior at that moment.

“Enjolras?”, he prompts gently after a moment, and it's only then that he realises he has been stubbornly quiet.

“I just don't know how to be one-hundred percent sure”, he explains reluctantly. “I want to do this absolutely right.”

Combeferre nods slowly and after a moment of contemplation, he says: “I don't really think you can be completely sure a priori. You don't have to classify what you feel, I suppose?”

“Only if you want to”, Courfeyrac adds, reaching out above to ruffle Enjolras's hair. “We're worried that you're beating yourself up too much.”

“And we were thinking, maybe you should begin with asking yourself if you can imagine being in a relationship with Grantaire, without trying to force a label on your feelings.” Combeferre presses his hand, and Enjolras considers this. He smiles a little when he imagines how he would have reacted to that question six years ago when he spent whole evenings fretting at how _frustrating_ Grantaire was and Grantaire probably had no idea what he looked like when he wasn't glaring.

Then he lets the thought sink in.

Maybe it wouldn't be too different from what it's like now. They would still spend time together, perhaps see each other more often than they do now, going on not-a-dates (although probably they'd simply be dates then), passing their daily lives together. Talking in the evening before going to sleep. Not needing any reason to show up at each other's doormat. Holding hands while walking, waking up next to each other, maybe cuddle on the sofa while watching a movie.

Come to think about it, Enjolras is not sure if this is how a relationship works. But with Grantaire in mind, the concept doesn't seem abstract to him at all. It feels nice. Spreading-a-warm-feeling-in-his-chest nice, making-him-feel-safe-and-cozy nice, everything-will-be-okay nice, comfortable-nice.

He clears his throat. “I can. But”, he hesitates, “when I tried to talk to him earlier” – Courf whimpers – “he kind of, you know. Stonewalled?”

“Maybe because he expected you to say the opposite.” Combeferre sighs. “Look, I know it's difficult for the two of you and you shouldn't try to force anything, but I think you should talk to Grantaire again. I just don't like to see you so confused.”

Enjolras considers this for a while, chewing on his lower lip. “But”, he finally says, and Courfeyrac pretends to faint. “ _A_ _nother_ 'but'?”

Despite himself, he finds himself smiling again. “Yes. There is.” He inhales a lot of air, to be on the safe side. “All of you – I mean, all of you know I'm gay. That's, like. I mean, it's not the _point_ – but – all of you know. And. I know Grantaire's bi, so, that's. Not a problem in this case. But, I, I never talked a lot about being ace. I mean, not at all, I mean – I mean I'm sure Grantaire doesn't know, and I. I mean, there is a possibility that _if_ he'd like to be in a relationship with me, that he, you know. Won't want to commit to a sexless one. So I, I don't know how to bring it up, or, _when,_ because I feel like I'd need to address it beforehand, so that we're on the, the same page, but, I mean, when do you do that -”

“Would it help if I told you about Marius's and Cosette's relationship?”, Courfeyrac asks after a moment of hesitation, and Enjolras startles. “How does Marius come into play here?”, he asks back, because he's surprisingly okay with Cosette being brought up, seeing how she just _gets things done_ (and he knows for a fact that she talked relationship advice on her Hijab fashion YouTube channel several times), but Marius?

“Well, as his friend, confidant, and ex-roommate I happen to know that their relationship is asexual.”

“And they're okay with you telling us”, Enjolras says sceptically, brows knitted. Courfeyrac just shoots him a blank look in return. “I asked, of course”, he says, “what kind of friend and confidant would I be otherwise?”

“They're both ace?”

“On the spectrum. Still kind of working it out. It's going perfectly fine, though, they talked about what they were comfortable with, and it has never been a problem. I mean, just look at them, the OT3 can claim whatever they want, but Marisette is the real cliché trouble-free fairytale romance.”

Enjolras has a hard time to wrap his head around this. It's weird, he thinks, that the three of them peacefully coexisted for years and never noticed that they were in the same boat. Like suddenly he alone has knowledge about their secret identities. (They could have talked, he thinks, back when he used to be so confused and took so long to find out about the names and terms and labels.)

“The keyword is _they talked about it_ ”, Combeferre says, not even reacting to Courfeyrac's repeated use of shipping names with regards to their friends. “If you being worried about his reaction is the only thing that keeps you from talking to Grantaire, I think you should give him the same chance you'd give everyone else of us.”

“So, like, go ahead and spit out everything that's on my mind?”, Enjolras mumbles.

“You're _good_ at this”, Courfeyrac encourages him. “All those speeches you've delivered, you can't tell me you're not capable of talking about emotions, because you get me every time. Back me up, Ferre, I got teary-eyed at every single one of them, heaven's sake, when you're standing up there talking about _progress_. Think about what you want to say, and then say it. You can do it.”

Enjolras closes his eyes for a second. “Okay”, he says, “Okay. I can do it.”

“You can do it.”

“I'll ace it.”

He gets the closest item in Combeferre's vicinity thrown at his head for that, which is, unfortunately, a chocolate bar, and then they have to search for it in the sofa's cushions for nearly ten minutes, but it's worth it, because suddenly, the thought of talking to Grantaire doesn't seem so intimidating anymore.

 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac doze off quickly after that, but Enjolras lies awake for what seems like hours, unable to fall asleep. Finally, he disentangles himself from Courfeyrac's grip enough to reach for his messenger bag and retrieve the reading glasses and Grantaire's short story. As he doesn't manage to hit the light switch from his position, he turns on the TV on mute as a light source. Then he reads the text, once, twice, three times. It's a surreal story and he's not entirely sure if he understands it, but somehow, it makes him _feel_. He tries to get hold of it, but again, he doesn't seem to find the words to describe what it is. An indeterminate, distant sense of longing, maybe. And something else, something that has more to do with how elaborate, how beautiful Grantaire has placed the words, and that he chose to show what became of them to Enjolras.

He'll have to read it again tomorrow, when he's fully awake, because that's probably not what Grantaire wants to hear as a review. Carefully, he places the stack of paper on the infamous side table. He definitely needs to sleep, and he definitely needs to stop thinking about Grantaire. Marius (the cat), fast asleep on Enjolras's legs, purrs softly at the motion and digs his claws into the fabric of his pyjama pants.

“Ferre?”, Enjolras asks in a quiet voice, maybe another hour later. The TV is still running on mute, some flashy sitcom recap interrupted by loads of advertisements, bathing the room in blue. Combeferre makes a sleepy noise to indicate he's listening.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“Why would anyone want to win two iPhones in a lottery? I mean, what would you do with the second one? Is it supposed to be a backup?”

“Go to sleep, Enjolras”, Combeferre says.

Enjolras tries.

 

> **[from Grantaire:]** _hey. i know i didn't want to talk earlier but i kinda need to get this off my_ _chest_ _so_ _yeah._ _here we go. i wanted to make sure you know that i'm not expecting this to become a relationship. it's just that i like to spend time with you and i think i got the impression it was mutual but that doesn't mean we have to make it a romantic thing. i'm fine with whatever you are fine with_ _and we can keep it friendly. don't force yourself to give me a formal announcement or whatever, okay? i hope this came across the way i wanted to and i don't need to_ _beg_ _the ground to swallow me in the morning. right. i just wanted to make sure i_ _didn't make_ _you feel like you owe me an explanation or anything. maybe i already said that. so. that's it._
> 
> **[from Grantaire:]** _fuck, i hope your phone is on mute and i didn't wake you up._
> 
> **[from Grantaire:]** _i just realised that if it's not i_ _just_ _increased the probability of waking you up by sending you a second text. i'm sorry. i'm also increasing it again right now. shit._

 

* * *

 

“You're _what_?”

Enjolras looks up from his laptop to stare incredulously at Combeferre leaning in the doorway.

“I'm kicking you out”, Combeferre repeats patiently.

“You can't!” At a loss for words, Enjolras gestures wildly at the mess that has expanded to his entire bedroom during the last few weeks. His desk, bed, carpet, windowsill and the large bookshelf are completely covered in papers, lecture notes and mind maps. Between the stacks of paper, library books are sprawled throughout the room, and pretty much everything is decorated with post-it notes. Even his laptop has been plastered with them, although Enjolras can't recall how and when this happened.

“I know, you have two term papers due on Wednesday”, Combeferre says. “Yes, I know, that's in three days, which is exactly why I'm kicking you out.”

“But –”

“Enjolras.” Once again, Combeferre is looking at him sternly, and by now, Enjolras knows better than to interrupt him. “I caught you stealing from Courfeyrac's cough drops this morning, don't deny it. I'm not risking you getting ill before you can hand in those essays. My exams are over, I can perfectly well sleep on the couch and take care of him alone and, no, he won't infect me. So, if you decide within the next thirty minutes whose apartment you're going to crash, I can help you get your stuff there.”

There's no use in further discussing the matter. It's a nice gesture, Enjolras knows that, but it still feels wrong to abandon the apartment and leave Combeferre to the risk to get ill, too. The logic in the plan is flawless, though, so he accepts, mumbling something about how this will only have him coming back in three days to nurse _both_ of his best friends. At least, he has gained so much skill at university that he can negotiate Combeferre to use his bed instead of the couch. After he has changed the bedsheets.

He thinks about calling Feuilly at first, but he knows his room is barely large enough to hold two people for more than a few hours, let alone a truckload of literature. For maybe a second, he thinks about the Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta/Grantaire household, too, but things have been awkward between him and Grantaire ever since he got that text in the middle of the night. Which is, to be clear, one hundred percent his own fault. He's not proud of it, but as he couldn't figure out what to say, he never actually answered. The fact that he didn't bring it up either when he called Grantaire to discuss his short story didn't help, and now that his deadlines are pressing and Grantaire is facing his last exam on Wednesday, they also haven't been on a not-a-date.

As a consequence, of course, Enjolras has put offclearing up things with Grantaire. It's driving him mad, because _who ever invented subtext in interpersonal relationships_? He's getting more and more tempted to finally put an end to all of this and just call Grantaire to angrily shove the whole mess of “I think I might have romantic feelings for you, but I'm asexual and I'm also not sure how exactly a relationship works” into his face, but he never does. Because it _is_ weird that Grantaire would tell him they “could keep things friendly” at exactly the same evening Courfeyrac and Combeferre claim Enjolras has been ogling at him, right? It doesn't fit at all, and although Enjolras once again can't exactly pin down the feeling, it's frightening.

As for the emergency shelter, it therefore boils down to Bahorel. Since he's living in his parents' house, he has the biggest place of them all, and he beats Jehan by not playing any instruments and having a relatively conservative sleeping schedule. When Combeferre and Enjolras show up on the doormat of his apartment 90 minutes later, a bit exhausted from carrying two bags stuffed with books and papers through the Parisian Métro, Bahorel greets them excitedly. “Come on in, come on in! I thought I'd clean up”, he explains, gesturing with a feather duster and a giant bowl filled with crêpe dough in each hand, respectively, as he leads them through the comfortably broad hallway the walls of which are plastered with posters of kitten. “But then I also realised it was time for lunch, so I prepared something.” He pushes the door leading to the kitchen open with one shoulder and lets them in. It's surprisingly clean, considering the amount of dough smeared on Bahorel's apron. As always, Enjolras's eyes immediately wander to his fridge. Since his last visit a few months ago, Bahorel has added some more photos. He can spot some pictures from their Eurovision sleepover last year and Courfeyrac's graduation ceremony as well as a few from the info booth in November and the traditional self-timer group shot from their annual party on New Year's Eve. Additionally, a new and complete collection of _The Byronics_ autographs has been pinned next to a photo of Jehan playing the guitar.

“You can have the complete kitchen table for yourself”, Bahorel says, collecting a few rubber ducks from the plate and gently placing them on the nearest cupboard. With two loud _clunks_ and relieved sighs, Enjolras and Combeferre drop their bags on one of the chairs. “I'll be off at two anyway to run a class, so just don't burn anything down. But first things first”, and with that, Bahorel slides the plate on the table and begins to unpack his fridge, “Crêpes. Have you eaten today?”

“I fed him.” Combeferre is grinning. “I'll get going then, I can see you're in good hands, Enjolras.”

“The very best”, Bahorel says earnestly. “And I don't even demand much. Just mentioning me briefly in the preface of your papers will do fine. Melted chocolate? Melted cheese?”, he asks, hovering in the vicinity of the oven.

“Dear gods, _yes_ ”, Enjolras sighs. He's only a little bit ashamed that he doesn't actively notice Combeferre leaving after that.

 

Writing papers _is_ easier without regularly having to check on a sick friend, and Enjolras makes a mental note to bake a thank-you cake for Combeferre and Courfeyrac once he has handed in these essays. After a moment of contemplation, he makes an actual note, as experience has shown that his memories of the last few days before a deadline tend to become an almost feverish blur in hindsight. He sets a reminder in his phone as well, just to be sure. His thumb hovers over the address book for a few seconds again, because he _could_ call Grantaire, but he shakes it off. He knows that he won't be able to focus at all if this doesn't go the way he planned (and went over for numerous times in the shower).

Bahorel shows up in the evening with food from the restaurant downstairs, and then disappears again for a date with Feuilly, not without draping a blanket over Enjolras's shoulders. When he comes back, Enjolras is surprised to notice almost three hours have passed, and Bahorel prepares some asparagus soup for second dinner and places another two blankets on Enjolras. (Everyone has stopped questioning the details of Bahorel's eating schedule years ago since it seems to follow a scheme too sophisticated to figure out, and Enjolras _is_ a bit hungry, so he would never complain.)

On Monday morning, Enjolras gets up early in order to acquire a good seat in the library. He doesn't want to hang around at Bahorel's for three days straight, after all, and today he'll just have to review and edit his texts for the second time. He tiptoes around the apartment to gather everything he needs, only to jump when he discovers Bahorel is already awake and quietly singing something in the kitchen that sounds like the opera version of a Britney Spears song.

“Morning”, he says cheerfully when he spots him. “Heading to the library? You have a post-it on your forehead. Want some coffee to go? Look out for Jolllly and R when you're outside. It's pretty strong, though, not sure if you can handle it.”

Enjolras is not yet awake enough to process everything Bahorel is filling him in with, but he reaches out his hand for the thermos mug he's offered and makes a grateful rasping sound.

Bahorel lives in walking distance from the Musain and therefore close to the next station, so Enjolras engages the autopilot and drags his feet in the vague direction, occasionally taking a sip of coffee. Bahorel hasn't lied when he called it strong. It alsocontains neither milk nor sugar, so every sip is accompanied by a small, but heartfelt, shudder.

He only notices Grantaire and Joly after he gets off the Métro at Cluny – La Sorbonne. During the fifteen minutes that he's spent underground, the sun has come out and he is surprised to find that apparently, it's been getting warmer during the last few days. He's in the process of shrugging off his jacket and shoving it in his bag when he hears someone behind him call his name.

“Enjolras!”

He needs a few seconds to find his bearings and localise the voice at the station exit. Joly is just climbing up the last step, supporting himself against the handrail with one hand and frantically waving his cane with the other. As Enjolras jogs over to meet him, Grantaire appears behind him on the steps, carrying Joly's wheelchair. Enjolras stops dead, a few meters away from Joly, and so does Grantaire as soon as he looks up.

There's a weird feeling surging up in Enjolras's chest that resembles relief. He can't classify it at first, but after a moment, he realises that he has _missed_ Grantaire. It's irrational and it's confusing; he _knows_ that he has been thinking a lot about Grantaire lately, but that was for a reason. Right now, however, there's just this weird sense of happiness bubbling and tingling in his body.

“Good morning!”, Joly beams at him. He's holding on to the rail as the station continues to spit out students, commuters, and working persons. They swerve around him like he's a traffic island, partly deflected by Grantaire and the wheelchair, then scattering in the directions of the Boulevards Saint-Michel and Saint-Germain.

“Were you on number 10, too?”, Joly asks. “We didn't see you! Sorry! You're living with Bahorel right now, aren't you? 'Chetta heard from Éponine that Cosette said Courfeyrac told Marius he's sick! I wanted to check on him, but Combeferre said he's fine!”

Enjolras needs a few seconds to take this flow of information in. “Yes, no problem, yes”, he finally says. “And it's nothing serious, just a cold, so I hope he'll be well.”

“That's because as soon as it's warmer than 15 degrees, every single European thinks he can run around shirtless”, Joly comments, shooting a disapproving look at the sleeve of Enjolras's red jacket that is hanging out of his bag now. For a split second, Enjolras isn't sure whether he remembered to put on a shirt this morning, and with a sudden sense of dread, he inconspicuously eyes his upper body. It's covered, though, so Joly's comment was probably meant in a more general way.

Grantaire makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like suppressed laughter. Enjolras looks at him confusedly because despite his blood to caffeine ratio he's still not fully awake and doesn't get what's so funny, but Grantaire looks so happy in the soft morning lightthat he feels his lips curving into a smile, too.

“Do we still have time for coffee?”, Joly asks hopefully, and the moment is gone. Grantaire finally drops the wheelchair on the pavement and they get under way, turning into the Boulevard Saint-Michel.

“Yeah, we're pretty early”, Grantaire says. He's thrumming some wild rhythm on the wheelchair handles, then shoots Enjolras a reluctant look from underneath his curls. “What about you, are you in a rush, or just trying to get the most work-spirit lifting spot the library can offer? And in the second case, do you think you can handle putting up with the second best in favour of Jolllly being able to meet his desire for sugar, fat and caffeine?”

It must have something to do with being tired. Enjolras can't explain why else he should find himself staring at Grantaire's face like he's never seen it before instead of actually listening to what he's saying. Only when his facial expression changes from the half-smile he's always wearing while rambling – almost as if he's amazed by the way his words assemble – to worried, Enjolras realises that he has, in fact, not reacted to whatever was the question.

Coffee. Joly wanted coffee.

He clears his throat. “Er, yes. Sure. Go ahead.”

“Yay”, Joly says excitedly. “You two stay put and enjoy the view”, he makes a vague gesture including the trees that line the boulevard and the fence on their left side that encloses the Musée de Cluny, “I'll be right back.” With this, he's over the crosswalk, leaning on his cane, and heading to the Starbucks that has popped up here some years ago.

“So”, Enjolras says self-consciously. He's not exactly sure what he wanted to follow, so he breaks off again, instead tugging at one of the curls hanging in his eyes. Somehow, this causes Grantaire to break into laughter again.

“What's wrong?”, Enjolras asks, weirdly aware of the fact that his face probably does this pouty-thing Courfeyrac always mocks him for. But he doesn't dwell on this too long, because now Grantaire is giving him this look again, and yes, the missing word is definitely _fond_ , and his smile is dazzling.

“You have a post-it stuck to your forehead”, Grantaire explains, still smiling. Enjolras dimly remembers Bahorel pointing this out to him before he left the apartment, but not taking action against this state of things. Apparently, he's looking rather blankly, because Grantaire asks him, “May I?”, and when Enjolras nods, he slowly reaches out, brushing aside his curls, carefully detaching a bright red post-it from his skin. By the way Enjolras's cheeks are burning, he thinks it's quite possible that his face has turned the same colour.

Grantaire turns away, murmuring something Enjolras doesn't understand. He's looking a little grumpy and incredulous and Enjolras somehow wants to make him smile again and also the caffeine needs to kick in as soon as possible, please.

“I'm sorry I haven't been in touch a lot”, he blurts out into the silence that has spread between them, if it's acceptable to speak of silence with a constant flow of cars, buses and bikes on the road next to them. “The last days, I mean.”

“No, don't be, you would've only distracted me from being exceptionally studious –”

“But I am, and also for not responding to that text –”

“It's okay, like I said, it's nothing –”

“But _I am_. Sorry, I mean”, Enjolras says stubbornly and louder than he intended. He's squinting against the sun, absentmindedly catching a leaf that's tumbling down from above and tearing it to bits. Someone bumps his shoulder as they're heading for the crosswalk, then a bike arcs its way around the two of them. Enjolras takes a step closer to Grantaire, for safety reasons. Maybe this would be an occasion to suggest clearing up whatever it is that's between them, but Grantaire is already looking wary, and probably it would be more reasonable to talk after he has finished his exam and Enjolras has handed in those nerve-wracking essays.

“We still have to talk about your short story”, he says instead.

“Uh, sorry to remind you, Enjolras, but we have, in fact, talked about my short story. You might not remember, it was about a week ago, or to be more precise, Saturday, a rainy day, but not unpleasant. I think you called me at about half past one.”

Enjolras blinks. “Yes, that was to give my, my immediate reaction. But I have made notes. We have to discuss several points, especially my interpretation of that scene with the suitcase.”

“No flip chart presentation? I'm shocked you would think so little of me.”

“There's still time to prepare one if you like.” He yawns, then realises Grantaire is holding back a smile _once again_ , so he glares at him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he spots Joly and his venti coffee, waving with a paper bag from across the street, and Grantaire jogs over to relieve him of it. Back on the sidewalk where Enjolras is waiting, Joly drops himself unceremoniously in his wheelchair and reaches out for Grantaire's backpack and the ominous bag.

“Chocolate cookies”, he explains, piling everything on his lap, then adding his cane, “Chetta and Bossuet love these! So I thought I'd bring them for our movie date night tomorrow. Look, the barista wrote _joli_ on my cup, isn't that sweet? Do you want a sip, Enjolras, I know Chocolate Mocha is your guilty pleasure as well! Let's get going?”

Taking Joly to the École de Médecine is only a small detour for Enjolras. He's listening to Grantaire and Joly discussing some obscure band, taking a few sips from Joly's coffee now and then (he usually boycotts Starbucks, but this morning he can't bring himself to argue) and finally feeling a little bit more awake. Afterward, the ten minute walk along the boulevard together with Grantaire is spent discussing the surrogate speaker Courfeyrac has organised for the rally and, for some reason,quarreling about the 2011 _Three Musketeers_ movie and Évelyne Brochu's hair. It's only when their ways part at Rue Cujas that Enjolras recognizes the thought that has struck him ever since he saw Grantaire first this morning: It feels nice sharing this piece of daily life, walking to university, sharing the rest of Bahorel's caffeine bomb, their arms almost brushing as they're walking next to each other. He wouldn't mind at all spending every morning like this, he thinks. When his thoughts trail away to a place where he's waking up with Grantaire lightly cuddled against him, he doesn't even have the excuse of not yet being fully awake anymore.

He only realises that' he's walked point-blank past the Cujas library when he's standing right in the middle of the Place du Panthéon and is nearly run over by the second bike in a row.

 

In the evening, Bahorel politely offers him to play some whale songs for a calming atmosphere. Enjolras, wrapped up in three blankets and desperately trying to focus on his essays, is actually tempted to agree.

“Do you think it'll help?”, he asks.

“You'll have a whale of a time”, Bahorel says mildly.

Enjolras declines out of pure spite.

 

> **[** **from Courfeyrac:** **]** _uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_
> 
> **[** **to Courfeyrac:** **]** _Courf??? Everything alright??? Isn't Ferre with you???_
> 
> **[** **from Courfeyrac:** **]** _you touch my tralala_
> 
> **[** **from Courfeyrac:** **]** _mmmmmmmmmmmm_
> 
> **[from Courfeyrac:]** _my ding ding dong_
> 
> **[** **to** **Courfeyrac:** **]** _Courf, NO. Just no._

 

* * *

 

Contrary topopularbelief, _yes_ , Enjolras does get caught up in his work and he might not always be great with this whole self-care thing, but it's not like he doesn't realise when he's not productive anymore. It's just a matter of effectiveness: There's this certain point when it's simply better to take a ninety minute break and recharge his batteries than to force some more paragraphs at ten percent his normal speed. He'll delete most of what he writes in this state of mind the next day anyway. So when his vision starts getting blurry despite his glasses on Tuesday evening, Enjolras closes his laptop and shuffles to the sink to get some water. The apartment is quiet, and he faintly remembers something about Bahorel going out with Feuilly this evening, but as usually, there's food left for him on the kitchen table. This time, it's a cartload of _RACUCHY_ , as indicated by the huge yellow sign attached to them, which also reads _I MADE THEM WITH FEUILLY THEY'RE FABULOUS_ and _EAT SOMETHING ENJOLRAS._ (Bahorel always writes in caps.) Further investigation shows that they seem to be some sort of tiny pancakes. _Delicious_ tiny pancakes.

Maybe it's a bad idea, but Enjolras thinks Joly mentioned a date night, and before he can change his mind, he has already dialed Grantaire's number.

 _Most probably_ it's a bad idea and he's being over-enthusiastic just because last morning went so well.

Grantaire sounds a little bit tired and a little bit surprised when he picks up. In the background, music is blaring, and there's also a noise that sounds suspiciously like he is driving a nail into the wall. “Enjolras”, he says, which sounds more like “Oungh-rush” because he seems to have something between his teeth, and then after a second, now clear, “why, hello, what did I do to deserve this?”

“Have you eaten?”, Enjolras asks, rummaging through the cupboard where Bahorel keeps some plastic boxes.

“And a good evening to you, too”, says Grantaire, and Enjolras can _hear_ his grin through the phone. “That, my dear, is a matter of phrasing. There have been, in fact, some occasions in my life where I have eaten, so if you were wondering if I have already made the general experience, the answer is yes, I have. Numerous times, indeed, and most of them were a pleasure. If you wanted to know whether I've eaten today, maybe for purposes of researching my eating schedule, then I can assure you that I have, as astonishing as it might seem, already eaten _twice_ today.” Grantaire makes a little exaggerated gasp, then there's the sound of something heavy dropping and a muttered curse before he continues. “Of course – _fuck_ – in case you were talking about the last, let's see, six hours, then I'd have to say no, I haven't, because, believe it or not, I have been a bit caught up in what you _might_ actually call work. This, again, is a matter of phrasing. I don't believe you're asking out of concern, though?”

Despite being well aware that Grantaire can't see him, Enjolras can't help but roll his eyes. “You could have just said 'no'”, he says, then stops mid-sentence because now he is sounding _fond_ , too. He clears his throat. “So, I thought I'd come over with the food Bahorel left for me. It's way too much for me to eat alone. I have ninety minutes. Would that be okay?”

There's a little pause.

“You know, Enjolras, you baiting me with food is just plainly unfair.”

Enjolras huffs. “Does that mean yes?”, he asks confusedly.

“Yes”, says Grantaire, and Enjolras is sure he's smiling again, “I'd love to, actually.”

 

Enjolras calls Combeferre as soon as he's left the house. It's drizzling, he's carrying a giant plastic box in his hands, and he nearly gets run over by a cyclist the very second he closes the door behind him, and suddenly, he's pretty positive that this is, in fact, _not_ a good idea. They still haven't specified the nature of their relationship. Showing up on Grantaire's doorstep with pastries might leave them even more confused then they are already now (that is, _if_ Grantaire is confused, too, but Courfeyrac and Combeferre claim that he is, so).

“Hi, everything alright?”, Combeferre asks.

“Yes, I only have one short question.”

“Just a second.”

Enjolras slowly makes his way along the street; the Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta/Grantaire household is only a three minute walk from Bahorel's and he wants to stall getting there as long as possible. Muffled from Combeferre holding his hand over the speaker, he hears him talking in the rapid Farsi/French mix that indicates he's with his family right now. Then a door is being shut and after a few seconds of rustling, Combeferre is picking up the phone again.

“Here I am”, he says, panting a little bit as he's rushing downstairs. “Just on my way back from my folks, fetching a clinical thermometer, to make sure Courf really doesn't have a fever anymore, as he claims. I _told_ you to buy a new one when I moved out, didn't I? But it's your own fault, before I leave again I'll make sure you two have a basic stack of med supplies. My mum also stocked me up on food, so I'll hide something for you in the fridge, okay? Sorry, what was your question?”

Enjolras can't help but grin. “I didn't actually get to spell it out.”

“Damn it”, says Combeferre. “Ask away.”

“Okay, _hypothetically_ , what would you think of me spontaneously visiting Grantaire with the food Bahorel left for me? Given the, the fact that we never talked about, you know. The text he sent me after Courf's opening night. Purely hypothetical?”

“Enjolras”, Combeferre says, “You're standing in front of his house right now, aren't you?”

“No”, Enjolras murmurs. “Not yet.”

“Okay. Listen. First of all, does R know about this _purely hypothetical_ visit?”

Enjolras nods, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt further down into his face. It's only after he has walked a few meters that he realises Combeferre can't actually see him. “Yes.”

“And – sorry, but I have to be clear – did you ask him if he's okay with you coming over?”

“Yes”, Enjolras says again, frowning. “He said he'd. Love, too. Actually.”

At the other end of the phone, there's silence at first, followed by a long drawn-out groan. The rain has definitely become a _heavy_ drizzle at this point. Enjolras has to sidestep a puddle on the pavement and quickens his pace, taking cover under the canopies in the line of houses as often as possible. “Ferre?”

Combeferre sighs. “Okay, first things first. You asked, he invited you, what can probably go wrong? No, you don't get to interrupt me now, E, hear me out”, he says as Enjolras prepares to make a list of _Things That Could_ _Possibly_ _Go Wrong When Visiting Grantaire With Food_. “You should be able to tell from experience that R's not a person to _not_ tell you when you're doing something he doesn't approve of. Don't you dare argue, everyone in the ABC will back me up on this, and you _know_ I'm right. Second, the text message.”

Enjolras flinches as he jogs up the stairs to the house where Grantaire lives, finally able to seek shelter from the rain. “What about it?”

“Courf and I talked about it in some detail, and we both agree that he probably just wanted to make sure you knew he's not trying to pressure you into something. I know you still take it for a nicely phrased 'you're overstepping my boundaries', but there's simply no evidence for that. You're over-interpreting because you're trying to talk yourself out of it.”

“I knew I could count on you for harsh words”, Enjolras says mildly.

“ _The truth is a terrible and beautiful thing_ ”, Combeferre comments. (His Harry Potter quoting skills really haven't ceased in the least ever since they first met.) Enjolras puffs, but Combeferre gets serious again almost immediately. “Enjolras, you've turned this over and over in your head for weeks or months or who-even-knows-how-long now, and we both know you won't rest until you've cleared it up. So go for it. Sort it out. I promise you'll feel better afterward.”

Enjolras thinks about this, restlessly shifting from one foot to another. “But I still don't know. What to say. Or do”, he finally says. “Also. My papers.”

“Only need a last proof-read at the most. And you'll figure it out”, Combeferre assures him. Listening to him, the way to go seems clear and easy. “And you'll be relieved whatever the outcome. You're always so serious with clarification talks. Remember the really long one you had with L'Aigle because you'd accidentally eaten his lunch? Or back in school, you know, the incident with –”

“Okay”, says Enjolras determinedly, “Thank you, Ferre. I'm going in now.”

He can almost hear Combeferre smiling. “Good luck. It'll work out fine, you'll see. _Hypothetically_.”

Enjolras hangs up.

 

“Okay, enough of this”, says Grantaire. They're sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, an empty plate between them, and Grantaire is holding up his hands in defense, covered in several layers of old and fresh ball-pen ink. Enjolras is huddled in one of Grantaire's worn sweaters which should be illegal since he has to physically keep himself from smelling at the collar the whole time. He's estimating that this alone consumes about twenty percent of his brain capacity. (His hoodie is drying on the heater in the bathroom. Apparently, the rain outside wasn't at all what one would _usually_ call a drizzle.) “For this to make any sense, I'll have to reread the whole thing again, and as much as I love discussing with you, Enjolras, we've talked about this for nearly an hour now and I'll probably be utterly fed up with my own story in five minutes at the most, so consider this a plea for deferring any further talk in favour of getting more of this ridiculously delicious food. If you don't mind, that's that.”

Grantaire disentangles himself from his blanket in order to get up and Enjolras hands the plate over to him. “I don't. I did mention I liked the read, though, didn't I?”

“Yeah, you did. I mean, the first ten times, I kind of didn't notice, but –”

To shut him up, Enjolras has thrown the nearest pillow at his head before he can even think about it. When Grantaire doesn't react but with a blank stare, caught off guard, Enjolras feels himself getting pale for a change. “I'm sorry”, he says hurriedly, scrambling over to him, “that's just the, the way Courf, Ferre and I handle things.” He stops dead when he realises he doesn't actually know what he's up to, his left hand still outstretched. Instead, he pretends he wanted to brush his own hair out of his face. A second later, Grantaire is bursting out in this warm, contagious laugh of his, and Enjolras suddenly thinks that it wouldn't be too bad a decision to just sit here looking at him for the rest of the evening, smiling.

Grantaire has said something that Enjolras didn't get, apparently, because the smiling took up the remaining eighty percent of his wits, and is making his way to the kitchen with the plate to get a Racuchy refill. Before he's out of sight, he looks over his shoulder again to smile back _fondly_ at Enjolras, and now Enjolras _has had enough_. He jumps to his feet, still huddled up in Grantaire's sweater and a blanket, but he doesn't fully notice, because every inch of him is focused on what he's about to do. Or so he wishes. The truth is, his hands are sweaty and shaking, his throat feels raw, and the fluttery feeling in his entrails which he's become quite used to rather feels like they're vigorously twisted and twirled right now, and he's not completely sure anymore if his legs will get him through this.

Enjolras tries to go over what he wants to say once more. Whatever it was that he had planned out in the shower is completely lost to him, though. But he can do this. He's good with words, remember? He can talk about this. He will explain everything to Grantaire calmly and in clear phrasing. And then –

Then –

Then there's nothing else he can do. He'll have to wait. It's out of his control.

(That's the frightening part.)

Enjolras brings himself to breathe regularly. In through the nose – wait – _fffffft_. In through the nose -– he can do this – _fffffft_. In through the nose –

“Enjolras? Is everything alright?”

His stomach does a little jump when he spots Grantaire standing in the doorway, or so it feels, but the nausea suddenly isn't so bad anymore. Looking at Grantaire feels like settling down, like everythingfalls intoplace. A weak giggle escapes him, wherever this is coming from. Most probably, he's also blushing, but then again, his whole body feels jittery, so he can't tell for sure. He finds that he doesn't care, and “Yes”, he says with emphasis, “ _yes_ , everything's alright.”

Grantaire proceeds to come closer very cautiously. “I swear to god, Enjolras, if you want to throw more pillows at me, let me at least put that plate down first –”

“No!”, Enjolras protests, stumbling in Grantaire's direction before he remembers there's still the sofa between them. This time, he's _not going to let that happen_. He's not going to let the words come out all wrong again and keep Grantaire wondering what he meant. There are months and years of unsaid words bottled up between them, and they are hanging on his lips now, and without him fully realising, they just tumble out –

“ _I only wanted to tell you that I'm in love with you.”_

Grantaire gapes at him for seconds, mouth slightly opened. Then he very slowly puts down the plate on Captain Danton II's terrarium. When he gets up again, he still hasn't said anything, but Enjolras can't panic right now, because he's too struck with what he has just said. The words are ringing in his ears, and he mouths them again as if to make sure it was really _that_ phrase. _I'm in love with you_. He's 24, and he's never said it out loud before. Never even thought it. _I'm in love with you_. He suddenly feels very calm, and a bit dazed. It's like all the confusing thoughts and notions have condensed into one simple sentence: The warm smiles, the _fondness_ , their inspiring discussions and their bickering, the comfort he feels whenever Grantaire is around and missing him when he's not, like he's not complete without him. Maybe even their arguments from years ago when they goaded each other until they were both yelling and peaceful coexistence seemed too much to ask for. He's still not sure if what they have, what he feels, is the textbook definition of being in love, but it feels _right_ to say it, and maybe you don't always need a reference to classify your feelings after all. “I'm in love with you, Grantaire”, he repeats, just to hear it again.

“That's –”, Grantaire croaks. In six years, Enjolras has never seen him at a loss for words, but right now, it takes him seconds to get them out. “That's –”. He clears his throat. “I'm in love with you, too, Enjolras.”

An undefinable sound is welling up in Enjolras's throat. He's tripping on his blanket as he makes his way around the sofa, nearly falling down, but suddenly, he can't stand the two meter distance between him and Grantaire anymore. Next to the terrarium, he stops, maybe just to stare at him, starting to realise what he has said, or realising he can't process it right now. The blood is rushing in his ears and his vision is blurry and he tries to say something, but he can't think of anything other than _Grantaire being in love with him_ , and how can it possibly be seconds since Enjolras has blurted out these six words – he recounts them, _I-am-in-love-with-you_ – and he already has an answer?

Then, seemingly out of nothing, the rush is over, and he's left numb with tension again, because there's still the terms and conditions to explain. (A nervous giggle is ascending in his throat once again at the phrase _terms and conditions_ but it dies rather quickly.) It's Grantaire's turn now to make half a step in his direction, suddenly looking wary.

Enjolras tilts up his chin.

“I would”, he says as calmly as he can manage, “very much like to be in a, a committed relationship with you, and in case you'd consider –”

“Yes”, says Grantaire.

“– if you'd consider that – an option for you –”

“ _Yes.”_

“– then I'd – I'm asexual”, Enjolras blurts out. “It'd be sexless. Entirely. Without – _expiration date_. So, just think it through, take your – your time, and tell me if you're still in for it when you've made your decision.”

Ninety minutes will probably be over any time now either way, and he shouldn't put pressure on Grantaire. Therefore, after a second of contemplation, he nods goodnight and make his way to the door as dignified as possible. If he's still wearing the hoodie at this point, it'll just have to come with him.

“Yes”, Grantaire says behind him, very calm and very certain.

Enjolras can't help but roll his eyes, although Grantaire can't see it. “You can't decide that in, like, three seconds flat, 'Taire.”

“I could”, Grantaire says. “But I haven't. I've – I've been in love with you for ages, Enjolras, I've –”, Enjolras turns around to see him laughing helplessly, shaking his head, “I've probably contemplated every possible scenario during the last years, gods, that sounds so pathetic, but it's true, and I've also made up my mind about this one, I swear, but there's not much to think about, Enjolras. It doesn't change a thing about my feelings. I want to be with you more than anything, I really do, and we're – we're a mess, but we'll figure it out, _I believe we can make this work out_ , I know we can, so if your offer still stands –”

“ _Yes!”_ , Enjolras says, and he's been fidgeting with the hem of the sweater all the time, and he really wants to be closer to Grantaire, so he reaches out for his hands and stumbles in his vicinity, bumping their foreheads together.

“Ouch”, Grantaire winces – maybe Enjolras was a little overzealous with that – but he doesn't pull away. Enjolras lets go of his wrists and entangles their fingers instead and, okay, this is nice. Also, the pain in his forehead is already fading and their noses are almost touching, which is how Enjolras finds out that apparently, he's ticklish at his nose tip.

“This feels good”, he establishes. He has to squint a little bit to be able to look at Grantaire properly. From so close up, he can see that his eyes aren't pure green, but feature tiny dabs of light brown. It looks interesting, like – like he can't come up with a metaphor because he's really bad at these. Also, his eyelashes are really, really long. When Grantaire blinks, he thinks he can almost feel them brush against his own. Suddenly, Enjolras notices something else and pulls away to frown at him. “I never noticed you were taller than me”, he says accusingly.

Grantaire grins back at him, very deliberately straightening himself. “One centimeter. You left your ID unattended some night a few years ago.”

“Maybe I've grown since then”, Enjolras mutters, relaxing back against Grantaire, only to pull away again almost immediately. “What now?”, he asks, frowning again.

Grantaire disentangles his left hand from Enjolras's to tug his phone out of his pocket and look at the lock screen. “Considering the fact that you've been here for more than ninety minutes now”, he says, gently taking Enjolras's hand again, “you should probably go home and proof-read your papers. Imagine you'd find a typo on one of them after you've handed them in. The agony! Our relationship –”, he pauses for a second just to look at Enjolras and smile, “it would be utterly doomed, we could never recover from such a horrible start –”

Enjolras punches him playfully in the stomach to shut him up, but accidentally hits his solar plexus, or at least he deduces this from the fact that Grantaire is making a pained noise once again. “I'm – I'm so sorry, it wasn't on purpose – stop laughing”, he protests, “it really wasn't!”

Grantaire smiles. “Go home”, he says.

“We'll see each other tomorrow? After your exam?”

“Are you asking me on a date, Enjolras?”

“Yes. _Yes_ , I am.”

 

> **[from Lesgles:]** _Hi, Enjolras! I need some legal advice again, could you give me a ring? It's been too long since I dropped out of uni, so I don't remember shit, but there's been an_ _in_ _cident with a bike rack, and?_ _Question of guilt_ _?_ _Question of fault?_ _I think? Thanks in advance!_
> 
> **[from Lesgles:]** _Never mind my last text, we've just come home to R, and DON'T YOU DARE call me about_ _the bike rack this evening_ _!_ _We're having a celebrational movie night :D :D_

 

* * *

  
After forty minutes at the latest, sitting on a stone floor in front of a lecture hall in the Art and Archeology faculty becomes uncomfortable. By that time, Enjolras has caught up on the news, checked most of the blogs he follows, answered every e-mail in the ABC inbox concerning the upcoming protest, and felt his brows furrowing increasingly during the process. (Courfeyrac, Cosette and Bossuet filmed a video called “E's brows reading the news – time lapse” for Cosette's YouTube channel once. Enjolras only found out when Combeferre was blackmailing them into not uploading it.)

He considers doing a bit of reading for his seminar on Friday, but he can't even bring himself to open the relevant documents. Not when it's been only a little bit more than an hour since he handed those term papers in. As a consequence, he gets idle, and idle Enjolras equals brooding Enjolras most of the time.

Yesterday, he returned to Bahorel's in a daze. Proof-reading and printing the documents was finished in record time, without him being completely aware that he was working, and after that, he dropped on the sofa, asleep within seconds. The high has carried him through the morning, too – he doubts that any student before him has ever handed in term papers with such a ridiculously happy smile on their face – leaving him all flushed and fluttery. He's texted Grantaire once to wish him good luck on his Archeology exam, but switched his phone to silent alert after his reply because he didn't want to distract him. (Grantaire seems to be on the same page as Courfeyrac concerning his use of emoticons, but since Enjolras quite likes texting him, he'll just have to deal with the lot of them.)

Enjolras grins at the memory of Grantaire's message. He's tempted to pull out his phone just to read it again, something he has _totally not_ done all morning long. Instead, he disentangles his legs from under him and gets up with some effort. A quick glance on his watch tells him there's still half an hour to go for Grantaire – not enough time to keep himself from thinking about what has been tugging at the back of his mind, so he might as well walk it off.

Yes, the last day was a daze, and this morning is, too (and it feels _nice_ , okay, he's not going to say _like_ _walking on clouds_ , but like there's a buffer around him that makes everything seem effortless). _But_. Grantaire and he have only made the basic confessions (and is it even correct to assume that they are in a committed relationship now, or do they have to, like, constitute it?). They have _not_ talked through what has happened between them and Enjolras isn't sure how his sudden outburst might have looked to Grantaire. Does he think that he just spontaneously changed his mind out of the blue?

Without being fully aware of it, Enjolras is now rigorously marching up and down the empty hallway, his gaze fixed at the tarnished glass panel doors marking its end. Grantaire seemed to really have thought this through – thought _them_ through – but it's careless nevertheless to assume that everything will just fall into place. And is he fully aware that Enjolras has never had a partner before? Never even been in love?

His thoughts go round in circles as he covers the distance again and again, staring ahead of him and taking sharp turns in front of the doors at each end. They'll have to discuss all of this thoroughly, the past weeks, everything, how they are going to manage –

“Hey”, says Grantaire.

Enjolras blinks, twice, and needs a few seconds to take his bearings. Apparently, he's just about to make the turn at one end of the corridor, and for unknown reasons, Grantaire is standing in front of him with two steaming cardboard cups in his hands.

“...your exam?”

Grantaire grins at him. “Has been over for five minutes, and imagine, I was just about to text a special someone of mine to tell him it went pretty well when I spotted him pacing the hallway and not paying attention at all to the twenty students leaving their exam room behind his back, so I figured I'd get some tea and hot chocolate from the vending machine downstairs first.”

“Thank you”, says Enjolras, all at once feeling calmer. “That's – that's great!” He beams at Grantaire, reaching out for his hands, then changing track to take his cup, and it's only after a few seconds of blowing tiny waves into the surface that he remembers to clarify: “Your exam, I mean. The chocolate, too, of course. I mean. _Thanks_.”

“Let's sit down?”, Grantaire suggests. They both slide down the wall, shoulder to shoulder, stretching their legs out to what would be a tripping hazard if the hallway wasn't completely empty again. In a quick moment of utter satisfaction, he notices that despite Grantaire being a little bit taller than him, his legs are significantly shorter than Enjolras's. He doesn't say a word, however it must have shown in his smile, because Grantaire nudges him and tells him solemnly, “You're a little shit.”

“Like you weren't inordinately smug about that one centimeter yesterday”, Enjolras protests immediately. “Besides, I'm working on myself in order not to be affected by internalized preconceptions towards perceived masculinity, so –”

“First of all”, says Grantaire, “ _if_ we assume I was looking smug – although I'd rather go with 'sardonic', but that's just a matter of personal taste – then it was purely for the reason that you were glaring at me with this ridiculously offended expression – no, okay, wait. Stop.”

Enjolras turns his head to face him, one eyebrow raised. It's unheard of that anyone of them would choke off a discussion before it even started, as both their assertiveness and their stubbornness usually makes them cast all reason to the winds, no matter how dispensable the topic might be.

“We have to talk”, Grantaire explains. He's studying his hands for a few seconds, then lifts his gaze to look back openly at Enjolras. Contrary to how Enjolras feels, he doesn't seem haywire at all.

“You're not –”, Enjolras says before he can stop himself. Not nervous. Flustered. Wondering what on earth he's supposed to say. Basically, Grantaire is acting like he's supposed to, now that all is well, but him saying that they need to talk, does that mean –

“No, I'm not nervous”, Grantaire cuts off his train of thoughts. “Not anymore. I was when I tried to ask you out in the first place, remember? But I've been giving this so much thought – I've been thinking about it for years –”

He trails off, his gaze drifting into space. Enjolras watches him carefully, trying to figure out if he will continue talking. The silence is tempting, and he has to fight the urge to simply blurt out everything that's still on his mind, just to get over with it, but he holds himself back and waits.

After a few seconds, Grantaire speaks up again. “Look, I've been in love with you ever since that night at the end of 12th grade when we stayed up for hours after one of the meetings. Don't – just listen”, he says, turning his head back to Enjolras as he opens his mouth to say something he doesn't even know yet. He's sure Grantaire is talking about _that night_ , the first time their interaction was more than snarky remarks from the back rows of an empty classroom followed by a sigh or the request to leave the meeting. The one where Enjolras's grandma had to pick them up and drive both of them home because the Métro had already closed up, and Enjolras fell asleep on the backseat, exhausted, and didn't even notice Grantaire getting out of the car. But Grantaire –

“I'm not saying that this was on my mind permanently for all this time”, Grantaire says matter-of-factly. “At first I thought I only had a crush on you. When I couldn't get rid of it, I tried to talk myself out of it, because didn't expect my feelings to be reciprocated. But nevertheless I've been thinking about us for a long time now and I've made up my mind for all eventualities.”

Enjolras's mind has gone blank for a second, or two, or ten. He's trying to stay calm, to find a name for the feeling that has gotten him all choked up. It's intimidating, he thinks. Knowing that Grantaire has had feelings – _has been in love with him –_ for six years is pretty damn intimidating when he himself has only figured it out less then a day ago. Should he have noticed? And, more importantly, how would he have reacted _if_ he had noticed, say, four years ago?

“But, I”, he says, trying to make sense of the muddled memory stream of conversations, moments and exchanged looks his mind is providing on cue. “I haven't – I don't remember when I – when I fell in love with you”, he concludes. “I didn't figure it out all this time, and I. I can't figure it out _ex post facto_. Did I just use legal slang in this conversation?”

Grantaire confirms. “Thank you for putting my Latin certificate to use”, he says in a sincere tone that contradicts the grin spreading on his face. “And honestly, I don't think it's important that you ascertain when exactly you started to have feelings for me. It's past, it just doesn't matter.”

“It's a bit intimidating”, Enjolras admits, looking back at Grantaire.

“I don't really think it should be, I mean, there's nothing to regret or to be bitter about, right? And we still have all the time in the world.”

Enjolras contemplates this for a while. “All the time in the world sounds nice”, he finally says.

“It does.” Grantaire is flashing his dimply smile once again, and Enjolras relaxes against him, hiding his own smile in the crook of his neck. “I don't want you to think I did nothing but wait for the second you'd make up your mind for the past six years”, Grantaire says quietly, his lips brushing Enjolras's wayward curls. “There was a lot of pining involved, especially at the beginning, I won't deny that, or else I'd belittle some of our friends' capacity for suffering, but when we weren't non-stop at each other's throats anymore, I liked what we had. Actually I liked the quarreling, too, but it was –”

“A bit intense.”

“Says the man who's the walking textbook definition of the word _intense_ ”, Grantaire teases, and Enjolras glares, but immediately qualifies his actions by taking Grantaire's hand in his own. “So when I asked you out two months ago”, Grantaire says after a short pause, “I did it because I'd decided I needed to give it a try, maybe to get rejected, but also because it didn't feel completely unrealistic that you might at least consider it. Because, you know, it had _slowly_ dawned on me that my feelings probably wouldn't go away just like that anymore.”

“I did consider it.” Enjolras is fidgeting with Grantaire's right hand. He still feels clumsy, but the nervousness is gone, and he's not stumbling over his words anymore. “It's just, I was confused about what your motives were, and about what I wanted your motives to be. And that we might go into this with, with different expectations. I've never done this before”, he says, because he needs to get it off his chest, “I don't know how any of this works.”

Grantaire squeezes his hand reassuringly. “I'm not exactly a relationship expert, either. I have the vague feeling that a lot of talking will be involved, though”, he adds drily. “We'll figure it out. And”, he says, pulling a bit away from Enjolras to look him in the eye, “we won't do anything you're uncomfortable with, and we don't have to change anything you don't want to change.”

“I have absolutely no idea what I'm comfortable with”, Enjolras admits. “We'll have to fly blind. Figure it out. _Take it slow_ ”, he adds after a pause, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, I realised you don't exactly like this phrasing.”

“Talking about phrasing –”, Enjolras is already feeling the familiar heat crawling up his neck, but right now, he doesn't care at all. “Does that mean I get to call you my boyfriend?”, he asks, cheeks glowing. “I mean, if you're agreeable to that term, we could also think of something else, it _is_ –”

“– alright with me”, Grantaire says.

“ _My boyfriend, Grantaire_.” He immediately needs to give it a try. “I like the sound of that.”

He gets a warm grin in return. “You _would_. It's a nice name, too. So, Enjolras, I heard you wanted to take me on a date today, so where are we going? Or did you decide on admiring this beautiful piece of architecture? In this case, I'd have to inform you that while I do appreciate its ambiance, I would be _agreeable_ to leaving university for the rest of the day.”

Enjolras's heart is pounding rapidly in his chest again, this time not from nervousness but from anticipation. “I have no idea, 'Taire”, he allows. “What about –” His phone is buzzing on the floor next to him. As he casts the display a distracted glance, squinting his eyes, he sees that it's a text from Combeferre which he deciphers with an effort: _courf seems to be fine again_ _ & insists that hell get along. need help to get ur stuff back from b?_

“What about home?”, Enjolras suggests, smiling.

 

> **[from Éponine:]** _ferre and gav are bonding over bbc miniseries_
> 
> **[from Éponine:]** _i wholeheartedly hope ur snuggled up on a sofa with R rn_ _but i_ _also_ _need u_ _to tell me how to deal with post-tess-of-the-d'urbervilles ferre_

 

* * *

 

They already hear the show tunes blasting on the stairs one floor below Courfeyrac's and Enjolras's apartment. As they haul the two bags filled with books up the narrow steps again, Enjolras tries to identify the song, but then it dawns to him: another month has passed since Courf moved in with him and he seems to have found a new musical to be enthusiastic for on the dot.

Accordingly, Courfeyrac opens the door with a dramatic pose, in step with the music swelling out into the corridor which, for some reason, sounds exactly like _Total Eclipse of the Heart_. He's dressed up to leave, wearing a purple trench coat with cream-white dots and his heart-shaped sunglasses again, and when he joins in with the lyrics, his voice doesn't give away at all that he has just recovered from a cold. “ _Wir sind zum Leben erwacht!_ ”, he sings confidently as he steps aside to let them in, faking a little bow, “ _Die Ewigkeit beginnt heu_ _t'_ _Na-_ _a-a_ _cht!_ _I_ _have no idea what that me-e-eans_ _!_ ”

“What is it?”, Enjolras asks, looking around in the hallway as he relieves Grantaire and himself of the bags, then steps out of his shoes. Going by what he can spot from here, he has the strong suspicion that Combeferre cleaned up their apartment during the last four days. Possibly also vacuumed it; at least, there seems to be significantly less cat hair in the carpet.

“ _Bal des Vampires_.” Courfeyrac is beaming so broadly he seems to physically emit happiness to his surroundings. Enjolras has always wondered how that works, be it when he digs up a new musical, or hits on an idea for an ABC field trip, or discovers that the canteen serves _pastéis de nata_ every other Tuesday, or finds out about a theater meme going around on the internet, or – actually, Courfeyrac doesn't need a grand reason to be radiant most of the time. In a sudden impulse of affection, Enjolras wants to hug him and tell him how happy he is, and he makes a mental note for that. Later. Maybe Ferre can come over tomorrow, and he can tell both of them everything and they can have a sleepover for once without discussing Enjolras's emotional complications. Because – he takes Grantaire's hand again, pulling him closer to himself – he's with Grantaire now, _Grantaire is his boyfriend_ (he can't help himself but repeat these words over and over again in his head).

“– my parents bought me last-minute tickets for the show, and as there is no French cast recording yet and I hear the Broadway adaption was weird, I bought the original German one”, Courfeyrac explains in rapid speed to Grantaire who has, in contrast to Enjolras, apparently reacted to his previous statement. “So I'm going on a date with our sweet friend and language genius Marius because he generously offered to help me understand the lyrics. It's going to be _great_. The show is tomorrow, in the Mogador theater, so I'll have plenty of time to memorize the songs, and did you know that the role of Rebecca – no, never mind, I'm gonna get going, have fun, you adorable sweethearts!”

With that, he's almost out of the door. Only that, when he's already placed his hand on the doorknob, he rushes back in to hug Enjolras tightly, plaster a kiss on his cheek and, before he lets go, whisper _“_ _e_ _stou muito feliz por ti_ _”_ into his ear. Enjolras isn't completely sure, it could be the bad lighting in the hall, but when he leaves, Courfeyrac seems to be a bit teary-eyed.

“So”, Enjolras says, and if his voice sounds a bit stifled as well, it's completely Courfeyrac's fault. He shakes it off, but in exchange, a new flush of nervousness hits him as he realises that he never planned further than arriving at the apartment with Grantaire. But he can handle this situation. _He can_. He has made some effort to memorize the standard questions for guests, after all, and he hasn't forgotten anything essential for quite a while now. (This is totally not reminding him of that time when Marius tried to politely ask for the bathroom over the course two hours without Enjolras noticing. _Not at all_.) “Where do you want to sit, are you thirsty, are you hungry, do you need anything”, he reels off, awkwardly gesturing in the direction of both the kitchen/living room and his own bedroom.

“The sofa, maybe, and thank you, but not right now”, Grantaire says cautiously, “Enjolras –”

He doesn't have much of a chance to finish whatever he wanted to say, as Enjolras simply marches off into the kitchen/living room, dragging Grantaire behind him, and dropping himself on the sofa without another word. Grantaire sits down next to him, his hand somewhat lump in Enjolras's, like he's not sure whether to hold on or to let go.

“This is so _frustrating_ ”, Enjolras blurts out. _Not-a-date_ or _date_ is just a matter of phrasing, he tells himself, not inherently different matters, and yet, his heart is still pounding way faster than it should and his mind is going blank. “It just _sucks_ that I'm always so unsure about this and that I can't seem to express myself and this is something I really value about myself and it, it sucks.”

He deflates a little bit. Grantaire shuffles so that he appears back in Enjolras's view, looking at him earnestly. “We won't have to have talks like these every day”, he says. Hearing his voice immediately makes Enjolras feel calmer. (Hearing his voice used to be enough to get him worked up when they first met. Some of these things Enjolras will probably never figure out.) “We don't have to behave differently from how we did before if we don't want to. We don't have to be in a fairytale kitsch romance and stare in each other's eyes lovingly all the time –”

“But”, Enjolras can't keep himself from interrupting him, “I do. I mean, I _like_ looking into your eyes.”

It's a _fact_ , so he's not even blushing. Instead, he wonders how this works, how this irritating fluttery feeling that he has associated with Grantaire for so long suddenly feels _good_ , and makes him want to draw Grantaire close and never let go –

“Is _this_ your loving look?”, Grantaire asks. He's smiling, a bit incredulously maybe, like he's just disclosed an old secret.

“Every look I give you is a loving look now”, Enjolras establishes. Grantaire laughs and _fondly_ boops his nose. “You're a sap”, he says.

“I mean it.”

Grantaire's expression softens even more. “I know.”

Carefully, Enjolras shifts closer to Grantaire, their hands still entangled, until their shoulders brush. He leans his chin on Grantaire's shoulder and exhales. With his thumb, he traces the writing on the back of Grantaire's hand, maybe making out the words _dancing bear,_ thinking that maybe some day, he can ask Grantaire to tell him the stories behind these notes. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a shadow moving. A second later, Marius the cat jumps on the sofa, singlemindedly walking straight over Enjolras's lap to curl up in Grantaire's. While Grantaire is chuckling, Enjolras shoots the cat a look of betrayal, and he'd swear the face he gets in return is _smug_.

“I fed you”, Enjolras says accusingly and, to Grantaire, “Don't you dare use the word _cat-astrophe_ during the next thirty minutes.”

“Are you kitten me? I would never be that insensitive”, Grantaire shoots back within a second.

Enjolras glares. Without effort, Grantaire frees his right hand to boop his nose again.

“So, about that book you mentioned last week –”

“Yes”, Enjolras says, sitting up and reaching for his reading glasses with his left hand, “Did you read it already? I made a list of where exactly – no, wait –”

“For what?”

Enjolras turns back to Grantaire. He's not even trying to hide how broadly he is smiling. “Can we do that forehead thing again first?”

“ _Sure_.” Grantaire draws him close and carefully rests his forehead against Enjolras's. “See? It works without concussions, too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking with this story until here! Please consider tipping me in forms of kudos or by leaving a comment below.
> 
> You can say hi to me on my [personal Tumblr](http://maraudeuselunaire.tumblr.com) or follow my art blog [here](http://coffee-and-cockades.tumblr.com). Coming soon(er or later) to your local AO3: Space!Eposette and the insane(ly ambitious) Sci-Fi/Fantasy AU Kat and I are working on. Stay tuned!
> 
> R's shirt can be found [here](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/post/126518728663/silent-web-of-wyrd-littlewadoo).


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